


The Walls Come Crashing Down

by oleanderhoney



Series: Jericho [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bamfiness, Case Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Oh Dear, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock's brain is a hard drive, brOTP John Sherlock and Lestrade, brot3?, gratuitous amounts of Sherlock Whump, it almost hurts, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 49,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleanderhoney/pseuds/oleanderhoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Thought, deduction, reason – it was all slipping through his fingers like a sieve once more and he desperately tries to hold on to something – anything. Everything is sand. It’s all turning to sand…</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first attempt at a more epic piece. This is the first part of an eventual series. Haven't decided if it will be two or three parts. Some of my tags are vague because I don't want to end up giving this away, but there will be relationship stuff. In this version there is not Johnlock, but I am thinking of making a similar version with Johnlock-y goodness if I get enough feedback.
> 
> Disclaimer: I only own the plot bunny. Not these magnificent characters or their bamfiness or cheekbones. Jabberwocky.
> 
> Yes. Right. This first one's pretty short. And confusing. And I am terribly sorry, but there will be sort of a slow progression to the inevitable reunion. But anticipation is glorious is it not? Not to worry. I've got the next chapter on hand.

“Go find John!” 

The shrill scream clangs around in his skull, tearing reality out of his hands. His head feels hollow, as his mind seizes like an engine. _Not again, not again!_ Thought, deduction, reason – it was all slipping through his fingers like a sieve once more and he desperately tries to hold on to something – anything. Everything is sand. It’s all turning to _sand…_

_‘Go find John!’_

The voice is more of an echo now, something its realness he suddenly isn’t sure of. The dullness is starting to set in behind his eyes, and he’s aware that it doesn’t really matter what he was doing before even though he knows it was important. Nothing matters really…

A sharp pain stabs his right side, causing electric bursts of light to rupture in front of his eyes and his teeth to throb as he grits them against the pain. He didn’t realise he had been running, tearing through the dark streets of London until he crashed into the wall of a dark alley. He takes a moment and sucks in as much air as he can before his apparently broken ribs force him to stop. The pain, he finds, clears his head a little, and with his knuckles he presses into his side, desperate to lift the fog in his brain a little more. He allows a strangled gasp to escape his lips.

 _‘Go find John!’_

There’s a ringing in his ears and everything around him is threatening to overwhelm him entirely. There’s just too much information, too much… data. His surroundings are assaulting him all that once; the bitter air of the city leaving the foetid smell of rubbish in his nose, the taste of petrol on his tongue, and the glare of the lights as they shatter against the wet asphalt force him to gag and squint through bleary eyes. The people’s faces are the worst, and a twinge of nausea twists his stomach if he tries to focus on them for too long. It’s a torrent of information he doesn’t know how to order or catalog. He can only keep his eyes on the ground and force himself to run past them at a shambling, painful pace. Oh, God he doesn’t know where he is.

Through the fear and chaos, an image suddenly leaps to the surface of his mind and he clings to it as if he was drowning.

Brass numbers burn every time he blinks as if they are branded there on the inside of his skull. They even float there in front of him whenever he is able to keep his eyes open against the too bright street lamps.

_221B…221B…221B…_

It was like flicking on a switch in his too dark skull, illuminating everything and bringing a brief moment of clarity in the confusion. 

_Baker Street._

_John._


	2. The Difference Between Theory and Practise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'He discovered on his own that if he stopped trying to repress everything, and let Sherlock and his memory crash over him with the violence and brilliance it deserved, he was able to actually start living again.'_
> 
>  
> 
> _'John knew he would never be able to draw the staggering conclusions that Sherlock did, but just that extra bit of keenness rubbed off on him, and he couldn’t help being extremely pleased with himself.'_
> 
>  
> 
> Living with the world's only Consulting Detective for eighteen months, you walk away with something, and learn what it really means to observe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love John. He's smarter than he looks. Bloody Brilliant.
> 
> Also. I do not own this awesomeness. Just the Jabberwocky.

Dimly, John Watson is aware that it’s morning. A slice of weak December sunlight cuts across his eyelids as it pries its way through the gap in the curtains. The pain in his bad shoulder, and the bruises that are sure to appear on his hip and side later, also tell him he ended up on the floor sometime in the middle of the night. Again. He opens his eyes and glares at the underside of his bed for a while as the images play over and over in front of him.

_Sherlock standing on the roof of St. Bart’s._

_Sherlock spreading his arms wide, embracing sky._

_Sherlock falling…falling…_

In a burst of determined energy, John heaves himself up and sits on the edge of the bed, his muscles groaning in protest. With his elbows on his knees, he grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes, scrubbing away ghosts and grit. 

It had been nearly two and a half years since – since _that,_ and six months since he had nightmares at all. And now, within the course of a week, they seemed to be back with a vengeance. Mary kicked him out of her bed when he accidentally elbowed her in the face, telling him he needed to resume therapy or go back to his own flat. He blatantly refused to do any such thing, taking his anger unnecessarily out on her. 

“It’s not _normal,_ John!” she had yelled at him, a bag of frozen corn against her cheek. “I mean, it’s like you can’t let him go! And now it’s – it’s just plain ridiculous.”

“Normal’s bloody boring!” he yelled back petulantly, faintly aware of a baritone chuckle rumbling from some dark corner in the back of his mind.

“For chrissake, you haven’t even cleared out his things from Baker Street. What are you going to do when your new lease starts? The one in Shoreditch?” John looked away, his jaw clenched. “Oh. My. God. You never signed that lease did you? Unbelievable! When are you going to admit that he’s dead, John? You _need_ to move on!”

That did it.

He had snapped as if she said the magic words that unlocked the war inside him. It took all of his military restraint not to drive his fist into the kitchen drywall. He did get dangerously close to her, however, and couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry when she flinched. 

“You don’t _get_ to tell me what I _need,_ ” he snarled, forcing the acidic words through barred teeth. Her head snapped back in shock, and without a word she went back into the bedroom and pulled out his over night bag, dumping it unceremoniously at his feet. The message was a clear one: _Get out._

And so, here he is back at Baker Street, and, Christ, did he sure make a mess of things. 

He tried to apologise the next morning, of course, but she refused to hear what he had to say unless it was him promising to return to Ella for his weekly sessions. He couldn’t bring himself to give her that, and what was worse was he couldn’t tell her why. This undoubtedly made her even angrier, which led to him losing his temper. Again.

What he couldn’t tell her was that every time his therapist tried to get him to 'move on'; it felt like he was drowning. The more he tried, the more he fell apart, his limp and nightmares worsening like a steady stream from a tap about to burst. He discovered on his own that if he stopped trying to repress everything, and let Sherlock and his memory crash over him with the violence and brilliance it deserved, he was able to actually start living again. He hadn’t needed his bloody cane in nearly six months.

 _‘I told you your therapist was useless, John.’_ Sherlock’s dry voice suddenly echoes in his head. 

“Yes, you reminded me. About a hundred times,” John says idly. He freezes, snapping his head up to look around to see if anyone heard, but of course he’s alone. He’s genuinely surprised he answered the Sherlock in his head, out loud nonetheless, and a twinge of guilt strikes him like a tuning fork. It had been a long time since he let himself do that, purely for Mary’s sake of course. But now there is no Mary, and with a sickening throb of his heart, after how bad he mucked everything up, there probably never would be again.

 _‘Don’t be so dramatic,’_ Sherlock huffs. _‘Go make some tea.’_

“Tea,” he mumbles his agreement, and stands achingly to his feet. He knows it’s wrong, and he’ll never admit it, but he can’t help but feel secretly glad Sherlock’s voice is back. He always has such marvelous suggestions.

After remaking his hopelessly destroyed bed and taking a scalding hot shower, he makes his way to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Leaving it to boil, he searches around the flat for his mobile. Once he finds it, his heart jumps when he notices he has three text messages. The hope is unwarranted, however, when he sees none of them are from Mary. Apparently, she’s not going to be the one to end their radio silence any time soon. He almost shoves the phone into his pocket without checking the rest, until the most recent catches his eye. It’s from Lestrade, not sent more than twenty minutes ago.

 _Care to give me a second opinion on a case, Doc?_

John stares at the message, trying not to feel too guilty about the wide grin that slowly spreads across his face. It had been three months since Greg asked for his help after he promised Mary that this was all behind him.

 _‘What Mary doesn’t know…’_ Sherlock points, the rest of the sentence trailing. He doesn’t have to be at the surgery for another three hours after all…

It wasn’t a hard decision in the end, really, and he punches the keys of his phone, excitement blazing through him.

_God, yes. Where at? JW_

Within seconds, Lestrade texts him back with the address, and John snatches his jacket off the hook with a little too much gusto taking everything else with it. John pauses inhaling sharply when he strokes the dark fabric of Sherlock’s Belstaff coat. After he – they wanted to dispose of it, but John was exceedingly grateful that Molly had saved it. He took it to the cleaners the next day to get out the blood. He hangs it on the hook and turns to leave, but he smiles when he notices the forgotten deerstalker on the floor. A gift from Lestrade. 

Sherlock hated the thing, but John couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it. Numerous times it ended up in the rubbish bin, or in the freezer, or countless other places, and he had always fished it out, much to his flatmate’s annoyance. Although, John figured Sherlock really didn’t mind underneath it all. It turned into more of a game between them than anything. He chuckles, remembering one of Sherlock’s more creative hiding places being in the tank of the toilet. He suspected if he really wanted it gone, the madman would not hesitate to employ one of his many other methods for dispatching things of 'abhorrence.' Fire, or sulphuric acid being the most likely candidates he remembers, thinking back to the demise of one of his favorite (and yes, admittedly ugly) jumpers.

Punching his fist into the hat to fix its crushed state, a wild idea occurs to him. He strides over to the mantle where Sherlock’s skull is still sitting, toothy grin and hollow eyes, and slips the deerstalker over its crown. He snorts in amusement before straightening his jacket and giving his best salute.

“Alas, Yorick,” he says, and heads out the door.

 

***

The Royal Thames Yacht Club was as posh as they came. 

John felt shoddy and extremely out of place as he stood in the elegant main part of the clubhouse at half nine in the morning, his cracked brown leather boots against the plush carpet. People were running around like mad, and he tried and failed to ask someone where the Detective Inspector was. He was ignored properly, so he headed around back and was greeted with the sight of police tape, and nearly all of Scotland Yard milling about, fending off the sudden onslaught of media vans and reporters that swarmed in from all angles. Apparently, this wasn’t any old murder, then. 

Taking a much needed breath, and a moment to clear his head, he dives into the chaos.

“John!” The DI shouts, squeezing through some of the crowd. He grabs his hand in a firm hand shake. “Great to see you again, Doctor.”

“You too, Greg,” he smiles and shakes back with equal enthusiasm. He follows him down to the docks of the harbor.

“How’s Mary? She let up her leash and let you come for the sake of old times, eh?” he says, shooting a mocking glance over his shoulder.

He knows Lestrade is only taking the piss, but he can’t help it when a spike of irritation causes his jaw to clench.

“Mary does _not_ have me on a leash. She doesn’t even know I’m here,” he sniffs petulantly, trying not to sound too pleased or too guilty at the same time. Greg arches an eyebrow, then, “She kicked me out about a week ago.”

“Ah. Sorry to hear that, mate,” he says stepping up onto the beautiful black mahogany yacht anchored at the end of the pier. 

_Posh and posher,_ he thinks. 

It was a handsome yacht reeking of status and – his nose prickling – a fresh coat of varnish. 

“What have we got, then?” John asks as they make their way up to the bow of the boat. It’s a big boat to be sure, but with the forensics team and half a dozen officers, it made it especially cramped. The floor sways under his feet, and he wipes his palms on his trousers. There was a reason he never considered the Royal Navy as an option in his duties to Queen and Country.

“Looks like a typical homicide. Young woman in her mid twenties shot in the head at point blank range. Not dead twelve hours. But…” the Inspector trails off.

“Doesn’t feel right?” he ventures. 

“Exactly.”

John’s lips quirk up at the corners. This was what Lestrade had said to him the first time he asked John’s help after Sherlock – he adjusts his collar – after all that. 

_I’m begging you, John. It just doesn’t feel right, and I don’t know anyone else that could give me any useful insight. And really, what could it hurt? Besides, you were the one who spent the most time with him, and I know you picked up on a little something. I’ve seen you do it._

John wasn’t an idiot. He knew at the time this was Lestrade’s way of trying to cheer him up and pull him out of the awful rut he was in. So he obliged – resentfully at first. 

But as he surveyed that first scene, John found that maybe he had learned something from the great Sherlock Holmes after all. It was uncanny, really, when he zeroed in on what Anderson and his team previously dismissed as unimportant (typical): the faded ink stain on the dead man’s left hand. John, being left-handed himself, knew that the stain was from dragging your hand through ink that had yet to dry properly. By the look of it, the skin around the stain was also suffering some slight allergic reaction. It was just a hunch, but he pointed it out to Lestrade all the same and recommended that they test it anyway. 

It turned out the ink was electronic: a specific type used to print the digitised numbers at the bottom of standarised cheques. Upon further investigation, it had been revealed that the victim, a banker, had a partner who worked for a company that manufactured the machines that did the printing. The two of them had been happily stealing loads of cash for months until they got a bit too greedy and a bit over their heads, ending with the partner trying to stage the banker’s death by robbery gone wrong. 

John knew he would never be able to draw the staggering conclusions that Sherlock did, but just that extra bit of keenness rubbed off on him, and he couldn’t help being extremely pleased with himself. He felt like Sherlock would be proud somewhat, and perhaps a little stroppy the attention wasn’t being fed to his massive ego for a change. 

The thought of his face at that makes John smile.

Of course, even now, after his vital input had helped Lestrade at least a handful of times already, John was never sure if he would be much help in the end. 

Especially now that he was staring down at a young woman who had clearly been shot in the forehead. Seemed pretty open and shut. 

“Do you have a suspect?”

“Yeah. Her boyfriend actually, the one who called it in. He was still drunk from a bender last night, and threw a punch at Hopkins when we tried to get him to come down to the station. We are holding him in custody on a minor assault charge until we can question him proper. Apparently he has a history of alcohol abuse and a right awful temper.”

John frowns. “Yeah, those don’t mix very well.” He crouches down to inspect the wound. It was straight on, and the powder burns indicated the barrel was close, if not pressed directly against the skin. “Did you find the gun, yet?”

The sound of a spiteful, _“Rubbish”_ makes John’s head snap up.

“Sorry, what?” 

Sergeant Donovan stands a little ways from him with her arms folded over her chest, a positively sour look on her face.

“I said this is rubbish. Do you think Lestrade would have asked for your help if we found the murder weapon? Honestly I don’t know why he indulges you. By the way we already checked the harbor. You don’t have to be _clever_ to gather that the tosser probably lobbed it out in the water after he bloody shot her.”

“That’s enough, Sally,” Lestrade steps in. 

“I thought we were back to no civilians being allowed on cases?” she replies indignantly, her voice rising.

“I said _enough_.” Lestrade casts his steely glare in her direction as a clear message of _get lost._ Resentfully, she leaves them to study the blood spatter on the far wall, muttering something about 'crime scene' and 'bloody circus event' under her breath. “Ignore her. She’s still upset with herself for how she treated Sherlock. And you being here reminds her of that.”

“Good,” John says a little too quickly, his voice taking a bitter edge. He clears his throat. “Sorry. It’s just – well you know.”

Thankfully Lestrade does know, and he simply nods, leaving him to continue.

After going over the body once more, and asking a couple questions on what they knew about the boyfriend – jealous, controlling, abusive according to his reputation – it looked fairly black and white. It wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone that the suspect would have flown off in a jealous rage and shot her, most likely throwing the gun overboard as Donovan suggested. They would probably find it eventually. 

He starts to say as much as to Lestrade, when a sharp voice sounds in his head like a cymbal.

_‘Wrong!’_

He snaps his mouth shut, his brows furrowing together.

“John? I know that look. You have an idea,” Lestrade states rather than asks.

 _‘Currently: four,’_ the voice drawls.

“Maybe,” he says slowly. “Do you know if she had any history of suicidal thoughts or attempts?” It’s completely wild, he knows, but it was the first thing his gut jumped to.

“Suicide?” he says skeptically. He ruffles through some pages in his note pad. “She was seeing a therapist, but we don’t really have access to those files yet.”

_‘Three.’_

“And this was her boat, correct?”

“Erm, yes. She’s the daughter of the C.E.O for SucraCorp*.”

_‘Two’_

The cogs in John’s head turn, he’s sure, audibly so. He knows something’s off, a pesky niggling in the back of his head, but he can’t seem to snap it all in place.

“John? You’re not seriously thinking she killed herself, are you? That’s a little far-fetched given the evidence.”

It does sound ridiculous when said aloud, and he immediately wants to backpedal on his hunch, but he can’t help the feeling that there was a bigger picture they all weren’t seeing. He stands there with his arms crossed, chewing his lip absently. _She’s in the middle of the deck, shot through the head, and no gun – obviously she was murdered then. It’s the most common explanation. Occam’s razor that sort of thing_ – his inner ramblings suddenly seize. 

Her eyes are closed.

_‘One.’_

Her eyes are _closed._

He must have said as much aloud because Lestrade responds:

“What does that have to do with anything?” A look that was probably equal parts 'Sally-was-right,' and 'John’s-getting-a-bit-carried-away' shows on his face.

“Right, okay, hear me out,” John starts. He licks his lips, suddenly very self-conscious. “When someone is pointing at gun at your face, do you have your eyes closed or open?”

“I dunno. What does it ma – oi!” In a blink before anybody can do anything, John removes the Sig Sauer from the waistband of his trousers – and aims it directly at Lestrade. The startled DI sucks in a breath, his eyes growing to the size of saucers.

“Sorry! Sorry!” he shouts, holding his hands up before he can be tackled by the good boys in blue. “It’s unloaded, see? Just for show that sort of thing.” He gingerly puts in on the ground and backs away. 

“Inspector!” Sally says, instantly at his side fingering the holster of her own gun. “This is exactly what I’m talking about!”

Lestrade glares at John, his lips pursed. He considers his sergeant for a moment, and then shakes his head. She stomps off with a huff. He then rounds on John, crossing the distance between them in three sharp strides, pausing only to snatch the unloaded gun from the deck.

“What, the bloody _fuck_ was that, Watson? Do you know the kind of strings I have to pull for you to even be here?” he shoves the Sig back into his hands.

“Right, I know. I’m sorry, Greg. But I proved my point, didn’t I?” he chances a wry grin. “You should have seen your face. It was complete and utter shock. Positively blanket-worthy.”

“Oh piss off!” the Detective Inspector says, but it ends in a nervous chuckle. “All right I’m listening. Proceed.”

“My point is no one closes their eyes when someone, especially someone they know, pulls a gun on them. Every one of the victims I’ve seen in the past always has this expression of…disbelief. But her eyes are _closed._ If you were pointing a gun directly at your self, dead on like that, could you watch as you pulled the trigger? I bet if you swab the boyfriend’s hands for GSR you won’t find any.”

“Right, but that still doesn’t explain what happened to the gun. It’s not like she would have thrown it herself. You usually don’t have the frame of mind to accomplish such a specific task with a bullet in your brain.”

“Yeah that part doesn’t make any sense. Someone must have moved it. The boyfriend maybe?” He grimaces the instant it’s out of his mouth.

 _‘Don’t be an idiot, John.’_

“But why? Truly the man’s a wanker, but even he wouldn’t further incriminate himself,” Lestrade says.

“No, you’re right. There’s something we’re missing.”

John scans her body again, and nothing seems blatantly unusual to him. She was perpendicular to the side of the boat, her feet pointing starboard having fallen straight back. At first it didn’t seem too odd, but now he is beginning to question why she would position herself so specifically if she was just going to shoot herself anyway. There has to be a reason, doesn’t there? Maybe not. Maybe he’s just over thinking everything —

 _‘Look, John. THINK.’_

He almost grumbles a retort to the Sherlock voice inside his head, but catches himself. No doubt he already acted the better part of a lunatic for the day, and he didn’t want to add 'talking to the voices' to that list of 'Sally’s-reasons-for-having-John-Watson-committed.' Instead he positions himself where she would have been standing, minding the dark puddle of blood, and closes his eyes. He then pantomimes holding a gun to his head. She would have had to pull the trigger with her thumb…

 _‘Yessss’_ the voice hisses, excited and impatient.

_‘But why? Why is that important, Sherlock? Her thumb…?’_

“This one’s broken. Does it mean anything?” Lestrade calls out from a crouch behind him. John whirls at the sound.

“Sorry?”

“You said something about her thumb. The right one has a broken nail. I don’t know if it means anything, but if Sherlock were here I bet he would be barking at us for not thinking it was somehow important.”

John leans in a little closer to get a look. Her French manicure was indeed perfect save one. There’s a little blood under the nail bed, and the once white tip is shattered in a jagged edge. It was like the gun was torn from her hands the moment she squeezed, the trigger getting caught on her nail. But how – _oh._

Just then he spots it, a chip in the wooden railing directly in front of where he had been standing. There was a good size chunk missing as if something blunt had struck it. This had to be new, seeing as how the whole boat smelled of recent coats of varnish, and yet the wood was showing like a wound against the immaculate surface. Walking over to the railing, he leans over to get a look. All he can see is a small dinghy strapped securely to the side covered with tarpaulin. Thinking it’s nothing he starts to step back when something catches his eye. Wedged between the dinghy and the yacht, is a tangle of white rope. 

“Hey mate, grab my legs would you?” he asks hoisting himself up, and balancing precariously over the railing by his waist. Lestrade grasps his ankle as he slowly levers himself towards the object, swiping at air a few times before managing to loop a stand over his middle finger. He tugs, hard, and almost loses his balance when it doesn’t budge. Finally it gives, and when Lestrade plants him firmly back on the deck he keep pulling until first one end of the rope reveals a small weight, and then the other, the gun.

John whoops in triumph, unable to help himself. “Got it!” 

“I’ll be damned,” the baffled Detective Inspector says while bagging the weapon for evidence. “How in the hell did you figure that one out?”

“She must have wanted to make it look like a murder so she rigged this little counter weight device so the gun would be pulled overboard when she let it go. She didn’t account for the dinghy on the side, and it got caught.” He’s aware that he’s babbling in his excitement, and also that he can’t help it.

“But why would anyone do something so asinine?”

_‘Obvious.’_

“Well…she was seeing a therapist, oppressed by a violent drunk and –”

_‘Bored.’_

“– bored.” He finishes, echoing the voice in his head.

“Boredom? Boredom would drive people to kill themselves?” Lestrade’s disbelief and disgust etches itself into the lines around his mouth, pulling his lips into a sharp grimace.

“She was an heiress to a wealthy company. She already had everything money could by, but it still didn’t make her happy. She needed to do something, I guess, take someone down with her…” John trails off, distracted by the hard look in the Inspector’s eyes. 

His jaw clenches a few times before he answers, staring at a fixed point behind John’s head. “So she got bored and made it all up so she could – for what? she’s _dead_ – and what about the people she left behind? Did she ever consider that maybe they would need some bloody answers after – after – I mean, Christ, _I have to be the one to tell them._ Tell them that –”

Suddenly it hits him. Lestrade isn’t talking about the victim at all. 

“Greg,” John says evenly. The DI was shaking with anger and still staring off in the distance. He squeezes his shoulder. “Greg. You don’t really believe Sherlock –?”

“No,” he says, his voice rough, snapping out of his dark reverie. John wasn’t the only one who lost someone important that day. “’Course I don’t.” He lets out a deep sigh, scrubbing his face with his hand as if trying to wipe away his memories. “I’m sorry, John. Of course I don’t believe he was a fraud. Not after watching you. You really did pick up on that nutter’s mad genius.”

“Well, if he were really here he’d have solved it about seventeen minutes sooner than me. Or rather, seventeen minutes and thirty-five seconds. Or something even more infuriatingly specific.” They both laugh, letting the tension roll off them, the unspoken question of – _why Sherlock why_ – stowed away for now. Why did Sherlock Holmes do anything at all really? It just had to be enough trusting that he had a good reason for doing what he did in the end. John just hoped that it would _continue_ to be good enough.

“Sir,” Donovan says as she makes her way over to them. Her face is drawn in a scowl and she glares at John with renewed malice. “It’s the press; they are _demanding_ some kind of interview this time.”

Lestrade looks over a John, and then back to his sergeant, his voice low. “Well tell them to sod off.” 

“They won’t take no for an answer, and our back’s against the harbor,” she says. They exchange a meaningful glance, and Donovan’s eyes flick over to John uncertainly. The atmosphere is extremely tense, and John can’t help but feel like he’s missing something. 

“Sorry, but who was she?” he says trying to break the uncomfortable silence, and also genuinely curious. “Someone important, yeah? High profile? I suppose that makes sense being an heiress and all. I’ve never heard of her, but I don’t really watch telly anymore, so –” 

“They’re here about _you,_ you bloody sod!” Donovan spits.

“Pardon?”

“You honestly didn’t think you swanning about with the Met wouldn’t draw attention, did you? The great Doctor Watson. The famous Sherlock Holmes. The _quack_ and the _freak_ –” she stops so suddenly as if she’s been slapped. Her eyes grow wide, and if John didn’t think he was crazy before, he definitely questions his sanity when he sees the sudden sting of tears behind Sally’s eyes. She rushes off to busy herself with Anderson, her cheeks looking a bit more heated than before, and John forgets to be angry with her.

“You really were right. Of all people to feel guilty, I thought she would be the last,” he says, a pang of sympathy knotting in his chest. “I guess I should be flattered, though. I finally have my own nickname. The quack. Huh.” 

“John, I’m sorry. I’ve tried to keep them at bay, but you know how fast word gets out. Some one leaked that you’ve been along on a few cases here and there and well…I never wanted to subject you to the media feeding frenzy. We’ll find a way to get you passed them.” He starts to radio for an escort and a car when John stops him.

“Greg, hang on.”

“All right, John?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s just…maybe I should speak to them.”

“Really? You don’t have to. They’re wolves; it’s their job to tear people to shreds.”

“I think,” John says licking his lips. His mouth is dry and he starts again. “I think it might do some good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I couldn't think of a name, and decided to use the Leviathan Corporation from Supernatural. One of my other favourite shows.


	3. Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John faces the press when they attack Sherlock, and ends up starting a movement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More John Bamfiness. Sorry if this seems like a slow work up to the 'reunion' I'm getting there promise. Thanks for reading!

To say John was overwhelmed would be an understatement. He felt extremely claustrophobic with about a hundred black microphones shoved in his face, and camera crews and reporters crowding around him in a tight semi-circle. With Lestrade and a few officers at his back, he felt enclosed and completely swallowed up. 

The questions fly at him all at once and he thinks, vaguely, this might not have been a good idea after all. He starts to turn to Lestrade wanting nothing more than to take him up on a quick escape when he hears something that makes his head snap round. 

“Doctor Watson! Doctor Watson! Jeremy Rattner here from the _Baker Street Inquisition._ I was wondering –”

“Hang on. Did you say Jeremy Rattner?”

The chaos dies, and the microphones move in closer. Upon hearing his name, a lanky fellow with a mop of red hair raises his hand.

“Yes, Doctor. I am the editor of the magazine –”

“I know who you are,” John cuts him off. His temper flaring hot under his collar, creeping up his neck, and he feels the lines in his shoulders and back tense as if coiling for a fight. 

He was well aware of Rattner and his drones who were hell-bent on spreading their ugly lies and conspiracies all over London about Sherlock. His was one of the more popular cult followings devoted to the task of villianising the great detective. John had been trying to file an injunction on the magazine and its subsequent website since it first came out, but the bureaucratic run-around stalled any progress.

Rattner smiles a crooked, arrogant smile, and he smooths back his fringe. 

“I’m sorry about all the bad air between us. But since we are here do you mind answering a few questions?” He shuffles to the front of the crowd, his tape recorder in hand. John can practically smell the cheap coffee and gingivitis on his breath from where he’s standing. 

“I have nothing to say to you until you take that abomination of yours offline,” he says, clipping his words. The melee starts up again thinking John’s moved on, but then Rattner’s voice rises above the crowd.

“Why are you following in the footsteps of a psychopathic fraud, Doctor Watson? Should the public be concerned?”

The words punch through, and cause the hackles to rise on the back of John’s neck.

“Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud, nor was he a psychopath. He was the best man I ever knew, and he did more for the _public_ than you will ever know,” he snarls.

“That’s arguable. Quite a lot of people think he was twisted and got off on violence and havoc. How do you explain away the Richard Brook incident?”

“Richard Brook was _Moriarty._ If you’re going to play news reporter with the big boys, get your facts straight.”

“There’s no evidence proving that Moriarty even existed. How can you be so blind? Everybody knows it. Even Mr. Holmes did. That’s why he flung himself off the roof after all, isn’t it? His so-called cleverness and ‘science of deduction’ was a sham.”

The crowd is silent and eager waiting for the snap. But John doesn’t move a muscle. Lestrade starts to usher him away until he presses again.

“What about the note, Doctor?” Rattner says bearing down, fangs in his eyes.

“What did you say?” John says unable to keep the violence out of his voice. He can feel his body slip further into all out combat-mode.

“We have a source that says Sherlock Holmes left a suicide note in the form of a phone conversation addressed to you the day he took the plunge. They say it was a confession of how he created Moriarty, and how he fooled everyone into believing he was a genius. Can you confirm? Or do you deny this despite numerous witness accounts that say you were on your phone moments before the _‘great detective’_ smeared his giant brain all over the pavement?” The greasy little prick sneers when John flinches noticeably.

“Who told you this?” The only time he ever spoke about that horrible nightmare of a conversation was when he had to give his statement.

“So it’s true then?”

Had Lestrade not been holding him back firmly by the forearm, John would have gone straight for the bloody wanker’s throat. Instead he composes himself momentarily, gives the DI an imperceptible nod, and he marches right up to Rattner snatching his tape recorder. 

“Hey! That’s personal property!” he starts. He turns to Lestrade, and the DI merely shrugs.

“You want an answer to your bloody questions, do you?” he said, the soldier in him rising to the surface and demanding attention. He drops the device on the ground, and crushes it once with the heel of his boot. “Then _listen carefully._ ”

Even though John isn’t physically restraining him, Rattner is frozen in place all the same, his eyes wide. The only motion is when his hand comes up to his throat to adjust his hideous bow-tie. John’s eyes flash to it briefly, something crystallising in his mind.

_‘Remember our game, John?’_

“I’m listening,” Rattner says, the tremor in his voice evident.

“Sherlock Holmes is not a fake. What he does – _did_ – was a gift of brilliance. I know this because I’ve witnessed it hundreds of times. And do you honestly think in all that time I didn’t try to _learn_ from him? He used to say all the time ‘People look but they never observe.’ Well, you want to know what I’ve _observed_ about _you?”_

Rattner’s fingers tug his bow-tie once more as he tries to regain a little of his courage. The man in front of him is at least a head shorter, but his presence is like a savage tiger waiting to spring. “Go on then. What do you know about me?”

“Sherlock used to say ‘You can tell a lot about someone by the clothes they wear.’ It was a game between him and I. He was always particularly drawn to neckties, and what they said about a man,” John says glancing pointedly down at Rattner’s. “Yours is too tight. You keep playing with it especially when you’re nervous. That means you probably didn’t tie it yourself.”

“You would be wrong then, because I did tie it. Your parlour tricks are weak,” he says gaining a bit of confidence.

“I WASN’T FINISHED!” he roars, his patience nearing its end. “You tied it yourself the _second_ time. In a hurry weren't we? That’s why it’s too tight, and also uneven. You probably couldn’t get to a mirror seeing as how half of it is inside out. So the real question is why did you retie it in the first place? Well it’s probably because the one you were wearing earlier was even more hideous than this one and since you left the house wearing it, it was probably meant as a gift and you didn’t want to disappoint. Probably from a significant other. But the relationship is new, and possibly even a secret. How long have you been together? A month?”

Rattner pales. And John takes this as an opportunity to twist the knife.

“So new and secret, then. Okay. Based on your manicure and neat eyebrows I’m guessing it’s another bloke.” 

“That’s not – I’m not ga –” he sputters. “You have no proof of any of this!”

“No but you’ve given me all the proof I need.”

Subconsciously, Rattner falls for the red-herring and places a hand on his breast, which is noticed immediately by John. _Got you._

John holds up his hand, and very slowly reaches inside Rattner’s polyester waist coat, pulling out a strip of crumpled blue silk. The other man’s mouth snaps shut, and a look of both fear and humiliation creeps into his eyes.

“You should have stuck with this one. It improves your face,” John says, and shoves it back into Rattner’s hands. 

The response from the crowd could only be described as an explosion. The clicking of cameras and the shouting of several voices at once as they try to press him with more questions, is deafening. John’s head is swimming, the anger not quite out of his system. His throat closing at the onslaught of reopened wounds. 

“I don’t care what anyone thinks,” he says at last, the crowd stilling once more. “It was all real. I believe in Sherlock Holmes, and I always will.”

***

The ride to the surgery was mostly quiet save for a brief apology from Lestrade.

“Look, John. I don’t know who leaked your statement to that prick, but I will find the bastard and have his arse.” John nods, unable to respond. Lestrade looks at him sincerely from the rearview mirror. “I am so sorry.”

John nods again and continues to look out the window. Everything is grey. And there is an annoying pressure building up between his eyes. 

After the high wore off, and it did rather quickly with the unexpected intrusion of Rattner, he had trouble focussing on his patients and his work, and anything at all, really. If he had been paying attention, he would have noticed sooner that the mess of people crowded around the television in the canteen had to do entirely with his face being plastered all over it. 

Oblivious, he goes to sit at his usual table when he hears:

“There he is! There’s Watson!”

John looks up from his bland turkey sandwich to the sight of his colleague Colin Hartwood hurrying over to him. 

“Colin,” he says politely. 

“Why are you sitting all the way over here? C’mon don’t you want to see yourself on telly?”

Before John can answer, Colin grabs him by the lapel of his white coat and drags him over to the small box. The crowd parts for him, and someone turns up the volume. John is in a daze as he watches himself on the screen arguing with Rattner, the _“I WASN’T FINISHED”_ causing a riot of applause from the people around him and a slap on the back from Colin.

“That’ll show the bastard!” he beams. 

John can’t bring himself to grin back because he knows what happens next. He was there after all. Here it comes. He shuts his eyes when he hears his shaky voice, unable to look at himself and see the weakness breaking though the composure of the man on screen: the once bitter soldier, now just… a bitter man.

_“…I believe in Sherlock Holmes, and I always will.”_

A hand slips into his, giving it an encouraging squeeze. He looks up and sees Sarah looking back with sympathy. He doesn’t want her to look at him like that, but he’s too grateful for her friendship at the moment to move away. He squeezes back and tries to smile. He fails miserably, because in the next moment she’s pulling him along by his hand into her office and making him sit on the small sofa in the corner. She shuts the door and draws the blinds for privacy, and John stands up, trying to keep his pride from being bruised any further. He already had one therapist, and wasn’t interested in another one.

“Sarah look I’m fine –”

“Sit down, John. You’re not.” He makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat and opens his mouth to protest once more when she cuts him off again. “Just shut up and have a coffee with me, okay?”

He sighs and sits back down. Sarah nods, pleased with herself, and goes over to the small worktop and turns on the coffee pot. It gurgles and steams, and Sarah bustles around with the mugs and the sugar. After the coffee has percolated, she takes the adjacent seat next to him. 

“Black, right?” she asks, handing him one. 

“Mmm. Yes,” he says taking a sip absently. It’s weak but he doesn’t comment. He’s just glad that they are sitting there in companionable silence. He looks at the clock on the wall and is taken aback when he reads two p.m. He can’t believe all of it – the yacht club, the interview, everything – had taken place only a few hours ago. He suddenly feels tired, unbelievably so.

“I never did thank him, you know,” Sarah says after a while. “For the circus. Our first date. Both of you, really. You saved my life.”

“Well it wouldn’t have needed saving if I hadn’t put you in danger to begin with,” he says, trying for levity and failing. Again.

“Ah, you couldn’t have known. Still the best date I’ve ever had,” she says with a smile, and nudges him fondly. He can’t bring himself to stop staring into his now empty coffee mug. She notices, and takes it from him, forcing him to look at her. “John. Don’t do this again.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, startled.

“Retreat into yourself.”

“I’m –”

“You’ve been favouring your bad leg all day. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I’m one of your closest friends,” she says without sounding patronising. 

He sighs heavily through his nose.

“It’s just – _christ!_ – my statement. That conversation we had before he…the fact that it’s out there somewhere as public property – I just feel like I betrayed him somehow.” He cuffs a hand through his hair, his neck tense.

“You didn’t. You wouldn’t, ever,” Sarah says. She places a warm hand on his knee. “You should take the rest of the day. Spend it with Mary.”

He almost snorts, but for once he doesn’t argue or explain. He just nods. 

“Yeah. Thank you…Sarah.” 

***

For a moment, John almost takes Sarah’s advice and gives the cabbie Mary’s work address. Last minute, however, he changes his mind and heads back to Baker Street instead. Frustrated, he pulls out his mobile intending to at least text her, but he finds that it’s stone dead and he gives up completely, even more mad at her as if his phone’s low battery was her doing. He pays the cabbie without tipping because he feels like being an arsehole for a change, and curses brightly when he drops his keys on the stoop. For some reason his hand won’t stop shaking today. Before he can unlock the door, however, it swings open and John is buffeted by warm air smelling of biscuits and rosemary.

“John Watson!” Mrs. Hudson chides. “Such language! Make the Devil blush. Come inside or you’ll catch cold.”

“Sorry Mrs. Hudson,” John says bashfully. Why is it she always happens to be within earshot the handful of times he lets some of his more colourful vocabulary slip? It was uncanny, really. Like a bloody ninja in an apron. 

“Oh you,” she chuckles and loops her arm through his, steering him towards her flat. “Come on. I made stew, and I’ll not let you go until you’ve had a bowl.”

He lets himself be doted over by her as she makes him sit at her quaint table, already shoving a nice hot cuppa into his hands. She whirls away from him yammering non-stop and fixing him a large bowl of beef stew with a hunk of bread for dipping. It smells buttery and robust, and his stomach rumbles appreciatively. He never did get to eat his turkey sandwich.

“Mrs. Hudson, you really are a saint, did you know?”

“Oh pish, can’t be a saint unless you’re dead. Tuck in, love.” She tugs his chin affectionately and launches into something or other about Mrs. Turner, and the green grocer, and “– did you know Tesco's done a recall on peanut butter? Something to do with salmonella.”

John nods only half listening, munching contentedly. The warm stew was spreading through his limbs and it wasn’t helping his concentration as he began to feel drowsy.

“– oh John! They’re playing it again!” Mrs. Hudson suddenly cries, snapping John out of his food induced haze. She grabs his wrist and drags him to the small lounge where a television set was flickering in the middle of the room. She sits down on the couch and pats the paisley cushion beside her. John sits just as the broadcast starts up, and his face, yet again, comes into view.

It feels weird watching the John on screen, so he looks down and occupies himself with the wood pattern in Mrs. Hudson’s coffee table.

“They’ve been playing it all day on nearly every news channel!” she says brightly.

“Is that so?”

“Mmhm. Oh! Shush here’s my favourite part!”

_“– they are calling it the ‘I believe in Sherlock’ movement, and new renowned zeal for the Consulting Detective has over taken London in a matter of hours.”_

John’s head snaps up, and he fumbles with the remote before he jams his thumb against the volume button. The news caster went on about the uproar John had caused at the crime scene. The screen flashed to him as he declared his loyalty to Sherlock, his heartfelt words being the catalyst to the sudden movement. Images of graffitied alley walls and carparks, and flyers with the words I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK lined the streets, and people that they had helped in the past gave a few interviews ardently standing up for the consulting detective’s authenticity. Apparently there was also a twitter account.

John’s head starts to swim, and there’s that odd pressure again, buzzing behind his eyes. He isn’t aware that he’s starting at the screen long after the programme ends until Mrs. Hudson gently takes the remote from him. She flicks off the screen, and a moment of silence passes between them. Finally, she was the one to break it by putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“What you did today, John. That was very noble. He would have liked that,” she says, giving him a watery smile.

“I didn’t do much. Just told the truth like it ought to be told.”

“And look at what you started! I’m so proud of you,” she says drawing him in for a hug. John lets her, even though the pressure in his head peaks, and his back stiffens. He can’t say anything for fear the dams will burst, and he will not let that happen in front of her, no sir. 

Thankfully, she doesn’t hug him for long, and she spares him from further awkwardness as she spring up from the couch. “I have to run to the chemist on an errand, but I tucked away some stew for you in a Tupperware. You’ve been looking rather peaky lately. Oh and do try and remember to turn off the kettle before you go haring off with that pleasant Detective fellow from the Yard. I’m not your housekeeper, and I would prefer it if you didn’t burn down the place.”

“Thanks Mrs. Hudson,” he says, stew in tow as he climbs up the stairs to his flat. England would surely fall with out his landlady that was for sure.

When he opens the door to the sitting room he’s at a loss. 

For the first time since — (he still couldn’t say it, why couldn’t he bring himself to bloody say it even in his head?) — he wonders if it was a good idea to preserve Baker Street as it were. For the first time, his method of embracing all of Sherlock snaps back like a lash and hits him right in the chest. _His chair, the sofa, the skull with the ridiculous hat – when did the hat get there? oh right – the knife in the mantle, bullet holes in the wall, the music stand by the window, the bow on the desk next to the violin – oh! the violin_ – looking at it now makes the pressure in his head build to a crescendo, the world spirals inward and he grips the door frame for support. He can’t – he doesn’t want to go into the flat that normally acted as his sanctuary. It was now a tomb. A mausoleum. He is acutely, painfully, aware of the dust lining the shelves.

_'Dust is eloquent.’_

Suddenly he can’t breathe, and it hits him that this feeling he’s been fighting all day is a bloody fucking _panic attack._ Full blown now too, it looks like. He sinks to his hands and knees trying not to drop the Tupperware all over the hall for Mrs. Hudson’s sake, and nearly laughs at how ridiculous it is to be concerned over something so trivial when he can’t even _fucking breathe._

He manages to shuffle into the flat, pushing the door closed with his foot, his back against the wall. He tears off his jacket, jumper, and button down until only the undershirt remains, and throws them in a pile in the corner as if they were trying to strangle the life out of him. It’s not working. He can’t breathe. Hot tears are coursing down his face, and he feels unbelievably stupid since he hasn’t let himself shed more than a few since the funeral. He’s alone, and Mrs. Hudson is out, and through it all he still worries about her – her finding him, finding his body – because right now he’s completely and utterly convinced that he is, in fact, _dying._ Vaguely, the doctor part of his brain reminds him that no one actually dies of panic attacks, but the considerably larger portion of his brain is currently devoted to – _oh dear God please let me live._

He fumbles for the phone in his pocket to call someone. Greg he thinks. Good, solid, Greg that isn’t liquid or unstable like the floor or the contents in his stomach. 

Screen’s black. _Shit._ That’s right. It’s dead.

The hysterics finally burst through, and he’s full out laughing now – sobbing? – probably both, but oh god his chest hurts, and he is sure his heart is going to explode. He presses himself further against the wall, his feet kicking out to ward off some invisible terror. He tries every technique he can think of from his therapy – oh god he was resorting back to therapy – and nothing works. His hands flail wildly for something to grab onto, anything, and in his frenzy, something heavy drops onto him from above, and he clutches it.

He can’t see through the tears, but he knows exactly what it is. He inhales deeply, wool, detergent, rain, the distinct smell of the Thames, and London. _Sherlock’s coat._

Air returns to his lungs gradually, and he gulps it in through heaving gasps. He somehow ends up on his side, curled around the Belstaff, and exhaustion seeps into his trembling limbs as he slowly begins to relax. 

Sleep takes him right there on the floor for the second time that day.

***

He wakes up with cool hands touching his face. 

“John. Wake up, John. If you don’t get up it’ll be murder for your shoulder.”

He sits up, disoriented and in the dark.

“Mary?” he says. The silhouetted figure in front of him straightens and flips on the light to the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

“You weren’t answering your phone,” she says, waving it in front of him. She surveys him for a moment, the disappointment clear on her face and in the corners of her mouth. John thinks about saying something, but before he can she walks into the kitchen and plugs his mobile into the charger on the worktop. “I’ll make you some tea.”

Right. 

He scrubs his face, and pulls himself to his feet. His body aches deep to its core, and he has no idea how long he was out, but by the waning light outside he guesses it was about two hours. He stoops to pick up the coat, and gently hangs it back on the hook.

He carefully slides into a kitchen chair while Mary prepares two cups of tea.

“I saw it,” she says with her back to him still. “That thing you did today. It was all over the telly.” She comes over and sets a steaming mug in front of him. He takes a sip and notices she took extra care in adding a hefty dose of guilt. Or in this case honey. It’s the same thing, really. She knows he doesn’t like his tea sweet. That way if he pours it out she can add that to the list of ways he’s wronged her. It’s unbelievably childish, but it bloody works.

“It seems like everyone saw it,” he says carefully unsure of which way the conversation is going to go. He’d held IEDs that were more stable than talking with his girlfriend.

“You promised you wouldn’t anymore,” is all she says. She regards him from her side of the table, peering at him from beneath her fringe as she holds the mug in front of her mouth.

He lets out a deep sigh. “I promise you a lot of things, don’t I? And I have yet to keep any of them.” She hums in agreement and takes a sip. It’s disconcerting. He would rather have her yell and scream and slap him or something. But she’s so eerily calm. Like a storm. Jesus. Finally he gathers the courage and asks the obvious. “What happens now? Between us?”

It’s Mary’s turn to sigh, and she tucks a piece of blonde hair behind her ear. “I got a job offer at a wildlife sanctuary in Costa Rica about a week ago. Before our fight. I was going to tell you about it over lunch tomorrow and discuss where we stand. But after seeing you today…I was just so _angry_ …” she trails off shaking her head, her brown eyes pointedly staring at the table.

“What are you saying, Mary?”

“I took it. I leave in two days.” 

“Christ.” John pinches the bridge of his nose. “So that’s it, is it? Jesus, I didn’t think you had to leave the bloody continent for crying out loud.”

“It’s only for six months. I will be back before long, and maybe we can sort everything out. I just think I need this – _we_ need this.”

“You couldn’t have waited, though? You couldn’t have told me before?”

“Right because you’re so good at involving me in your decision making process,” she snorts. “I just figured since you get to do what ever you want regardless of the other person in the relationship, I should get to do that too. Just this once.”

She has a point. His indignation dissolves, replaced by the taste of sickly-sweet (yep, there it is) guilt as he takes a large mouthful of tea. When he doesn’t say anything she gets up and puts her mug in the sink. _She’s leaving, now,_ he thinks. And to him it feels an awful lot like losing. John Watson hates losing.

“Wait,” he says and catches her arm before she walks past him. “Don’t do this. What if I go back to seeing Ella?”

“This isn’t an ultimatum, John,” she sighs heavily. “It is what it is. If you really want to sort yourself out, and God knows you need to, it has to be for you. You can’t keep bargaining your way through our relationship. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Please,” he says again. _I can’t lose you too._

She cups his face in her hand, and kisses him gently, her eyes sad. “I’ll be back in six months. I promise things will be better then. For the both of us.” 

She runs her hand through his hair, and without saying anything more, she leaves him standing alone in the middle of the kitchen, the only sound the clicking of the front door as it closes behind her.


	4. The Project

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft discovers what really happened to Sherlock in the years he's been away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I really needed to write a bamf scene for Mycroft. So much bamf and love between brothers.

Mycroft pours himself another scotch and looks over the file for the third time that night. 

On nearly every page of the dossier was the word _RP-Classified_ stamped in red ink like a burn. The experimental project was hardly a secret to the British Government himself, and generally speaking, he would turn a blind eye at the rumors of _civilian testing,_ and _biological weapons scoring,_ that made their way to the higher ups. As far as he was concerned, the Special Tactics Force never crossed paths with International Affiars, and he had no reason to look into what they were up to. But now this was not the case, clearance be damned. 

He’s trying to glean as much information as he can, but his attention is constantly arrested when he comes across the same thing: _Subject: 01-895 Holmes._ The black bold letters are on everything, every photo, in every abstract and analysis, and all over the brief portfolio of medical documentation. They scream at him over and over _Sherlock._ The ice in his glass clinks against the side as it slowly starts to melt.

The irony of it all was how _efficient_ his government truly was. The right hand never knows exactly what the left is doing, after all. All manipulation and omitted information. The thing was, Mycroft Holmes was rarely in the position where he wasn’t the one pulling the strings or conducting the orchestra. It was clever, and he would have commended the methods STF used if it were anybody else. Simple too. What better way for them to acquire Sherlock than through his only brother? Making him think that it was all his idea? The best way to keep him safe? They made Mycroft the deliverer, and he had turned Sherlock over willingly. Emotions, sentiment, how easily they can be played like an instrument and he had given his best performance, blinded by his never ending need to _keep Sherlock safe._ It’s what he would have done — it’s what he _had_ done numerous times before.

Mycroft stands and paces a bit before he goes back over and reads the printed transcripts. He had been putting it off for as long as he could, dreading what he might find. He couldn’t just look at the words that had once come from Sherlock’s own lips and still remain clinical as he had pouring over all the other facts and data. There were only three transcripts, but he highly doubted this was all of them. The rest were most likely destroyed. He glanced at the heading and noted the first one was dated over two years ago. A week from when he saw his brother for the last time convinced he was in good hands. Stupid. Unacceptable.

_COORDINATOR r-67P: You’re cooperation is most ideal, I assure you._

_SUB 01-895 S. Holmes: Piss off._

_[indistinct humming]_

_(SUB yelling)_

_CO r-67P: You will cooperate, Mr. Holmes._

_SUB 01-895: You’re making a huge mistake. Do you know who my brother is? If you let me go now I might put in a good word. Maybe he’ll spare you the time and money on having to prepare for funeral arrangements. God knows your wife can’t be arsed. She no doubt married you for your will. Good thing cremation is cheap. Any particular place you wish to be scattered?_

_[silence]_

_CO r-67P: Raise it to six._

_[indistinct… ‘sir?’]_

_CO r-67P: I said do it._

_[indistinct humming]_

_SUB 01-895: Bastards! (coughing) [indistinct… ‘Mycroft’(?)…indistinct]_

_CO r-67P: Your breath is wasted on idle threats. Do you really think you being here wasn’t his plan all along?_

_SUB 01-895: [indistinct]…lying. He will come for me._

_CO r-67P: No. He won’t._

_[silence]_

_CO r-67P: You’re his greatest resource. How many knighthoods has he offered you? How many times does he turn to you for your particular set of skills? He’s always wanted a reason to add you to his collection and now he has it. But you’re rather a loose cannon, aren’t you? Drugs, impulse control. Acclaimed sociopathy? How much trouble do you think you caused for him after ‘Bond Air’? And with your recent scandal, well, it’s becoming harder and harder to keep sweeping everything under the rug, as it were. It’s time you served your purpose. High time. I’m inclined to believe your brother agrees._

_[silence]_

_CO r-67P: I will leave you to think about your position. I trust you will see how much easier this will be when you realise we are all on the same side._

_[indistinct humming]_

Mycroft turns to the other transcript dated three months after the first. His eyes snap immediately to a specific point in the dialogue.

_CO r-67P: How did you do it? How did you just get up and walk away?_

_[silence]_

_CO r-67P: A different tact perhaps. Moriarty._

_[silence]_

_CO r-67P: What did he give you?_

_[silence]_

_CO r-67P: All right we can do it your way then. Five._

_[indistinct humming]_

_SUB 01-895: (shouting) Why are you doing this?_

_CO r-67P: Moriarty. The encryption. The key. What was it?_

_SUB 01-895: (laughter) Are you blind? There never was a code. (yells) No, don’t —!_

_[indistinct humming]_

_SUB 01-895: (yells) I’m telling the bloody truth!_

_CO r-67P: Again! Turn it to seven._

_[indistinct humming]_

_(SUB screaming)_

_CO r-67P: Again._

_[indistinct humming]_

_(SUB screaming) (SUB retching)_

_SUB 01-895: [indistinct]… Mycroft!_

_CO r-67P: (shouting) The key, Mr. Holmes!_

_SUB 01-895: Mycroft…_

_CO r-67P: (shouting) Tell us what Moriarty gave you!_

_[silence]_

_CO r-67P: Start on the HOUND serum. Document all proceedings. We will reconvene. And get him out of here._

_[end recording]_

The third and final transcript took place only six months ago. Mycroft scrubs his face before reading, and drains the last of the scotch.

_COORDINATOR r-67P: Martha Hudson._

_[silence]_

_CO r-67P: Look at it, Mr. Holmes._

_[silence]_

_CO r-67P: Gregory Lestrade. Detective Inspector of the Metropolitan Police down at NSY._

_SUB 01-895 S. Holmes: Stop…stop this._

_CO r-67P: Do I need to show you more? Do I need to show you what the Black Lotus did to him?_

_[silence]_

_CO r-67P: Doctor John H. Watson —_

_SUB 01-895: (yells) No! No — SHUT UP!_

_CO r-67P: (shouting) DOCTOR JOHN WATSON, Mr. Holmes! Look at it! Look at what Moriarty’s men did to him! They were thorough, were they not?_

_[indistinct… ‘please’ (?)]_

_(SUB retching)_

_CO r-67P: [indistinct]…Christ. Someone get him a bucket._

_[static interference]_

_[recording corrupted]_

_CO r-67P: This could have been prevented, you know._

_SUB 01-895: (sobbing) Please. I’ll do it. What ever you want just — please._

_[static interference]_

_[recording corrupted]_

_[end recording]_

For a long time Mycroft stares blankly at the transcript, not able to read anymore of the blasted file. He tries not to imagine his brother pleading, in pain, and scared for his life, but it’s only too easy to conjure in his perfect photographic memory. He can hear the strain in his voice, and see the tension in the lines of his mouth all too clearly as they break him. Suddenly he is fourteen again and Sherlock is seven, and Mycroft is carrying him back to their summer home with a broken leg after having been lost in the forest for six hours. Relief and admiration flooded his innocent face when he said, ‘I knew you would come for me My.’

_‘He will come for me.’_

_‘No. He won’t.’_

He hadn't.

Mycroft rises stiffly from his desk, his fingertips pressing into the dark wood. His own failure ripping into him, and fear — fear beyond anything he’s ever imagined chisels painfully into his chest. He takes the glass tumbler and hurtles is against the wall.

“Sir,” comes the reply from the door. Anthea hovers anxiously, her eyes wide. He didn’t hear her come in over the pounding in his head. She has a file in her hand, and he narrows in on it instantly.

“Is that it?” he asks, his voice placid as ever despite the rage that threatens to white out his vision. 

The spell is broken, and Anthea schools her face away from the shock that was written there a moment ago, and glides smoothly across the room. He takes it from her and his eyes flick rapidly over the dossier.

_Doctor Charles Maddox — 53 — Marital Status: Married — Spouse: Ellen Raimy-Maddox — Children: None — Place of Employ — AAC. Baskerville — Biological Weapons Testing; AAC. Carmine; RNAS. McKellen; Ft. Londbow [more upon request]- Specialist; Coordinator/ CO r-67P — Status: Terminated._

He snaps the file shut, and grabs the suit jacket from the coat rack.

“I have a matter to attend to, and I will be unreachable until Wednesday. Hold all of my calls, and push everything back. Oh and do clean up that glass, would you?”

“Would you like me to page the driver, Sir?”

“No not necessary.”

“Where are you going?”

He pauses at the door, and looks at her with a steely expression. “To do some leg work.”

***

Mycroft was sitting in one of the ostentatious wingback chairs in front of the fireplace, when an older gentleman in a tux came in. No doubt on his way back from a charity ball, his wife (soon to be ex) still making a mockery of herself with too much champagne and younger men, leaving him to return to his big empty house alone. 

“Ah, Doctor Maddox. Please do come in,” he says casually, not taking his eyes from the hypnotic glow of the fire. He could feel Maddox start, instantly on guard due to the man in his study looking for all the world like he’s made himself at home. Mycroft looks at him congenially, lights one of his cigars, and rises elegantly to his feet. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says regarding the Ashton Heritage approvingly, “you do have excellent taste, and I couldn’t resist.” 

He hoped his ruse would work. After all, Maddox was probably used to unannounced Government Officals showing up in the privacy of his home. Mycroft had asserted his position this way several times in the past. The message was meant to be obvious: _you don’t_ have _any privacy, you work for us._ He just hoped Maddox would be a little more open now that it appeared he was out of a job.

“Of course,” he says, curiosity winning out against caution, and he closes the door and strides into the room. “What can I do for you Mr. —?”

“I wanted to discuss a rather delicate matter with you, Doctor,” Mycroft says smoothly running over the question. Oh this was excellent. The fact that Maddox didn’t recognise him out right is more than he could have hoped for. Best not reveal his name, however. He knew the various branches of the covert departments he belonged to made anonymity into a tool. But with his direct involvement with Sherlock, who knew how much the man had discovered. “Is this a secure room?”

“Yes, indeed,” Maddox says. He nods in thanks as he takes the pre-clipped cigar from the other man’s fingers, and lights it with a gold lighter. “If this is about Baskerville, I assure you I have no more information than what you already have on file.” He makes his way to one of his armchairs, taking a long pull of heady smoke.

“Don’t mistake me, Doctor, I am not from the Enquires Division. I know about the testing that went on there and how…necessary it was to do what you did to those people. I know you did what was required to protect your country, and it is highly commendable.” He walks over and leans an elbow against the mantle, his ankles crossing as if he were leaning on his umbrella. He absently flicks ash into the fire.

Maddox grunts non-committally. “Then what is it you wish to discuss?”

“Fort Londbow.”

“Ah yes, the _Project_.” Maddox leans back into the chair, the languid smoke swirling around him. Mycroft’s eyes flash to the other man, but he says nothing. “Almost wasn’t worth the trouble.”

“What wasn't?”

“Not what, who,” Maddox smirks as he exhales a long stream of silver. “It took a while to break him, and most of our data ended up being inconclusive and had to be destroyed. But eventually we made him see reason. See that he had to serve Queen and Country just like the rest of us.” There was a sick triumph in his voice.

Mycroft had to work extra hard to keep his tone neutral. “Subject zero-one-dash-eight-nine-five. I’ve read the report. How was it put ‘Reprogramming Prototype’…?”

“He was the only one of his kind that could use his mind the way he could. It made our theories into reality,” Maddox nodded his smirk turning into a sadistic grin. “His brain operated like a computer, storing bits of data, cataloguing, analysing. He was a right tactical genuis. It was fascinating. The only thing I would have liked more was to dissect it myself when we were through with him. Find out what made it work.”

“Tell me about the techniques involved. How was the HOUND serum used in this case? The analysis was vague.”

“The serum was used to get him to comply mostly. It made it easier for him to trust us, to work for us. We were able to strip him of his morals. Replace them with ours.”

“Ah. Elegant brainwashing in a sense. You made him your own personal assassin,” Mycroft says thinking back to a sheet of paper in the file that had several familiar names crossed off. He had been trying just as hard to track Moriarty’s men, and every time he came close, they would just disappear or be found as a corpse in a riverbed or in the remains of a warehouse burnt to the ground, someone always one step ahead.

“James Moriarty’s network was vast, and we needed someone who thought like him. We couldn’t wait around for International Affairs to track down the whereabouts of the Black Lotus, not to mention other equally nefarious syndicates. Our little _Project_ dissolved Moriarty’s web within a year and a half, more efficiently than anyone IA could have outsourced, scattering the rest of the hangers-on to the wind. It was a success to say the least.”

“A year and a half? What of the remaining six months? According to the records he wasn’t released until a week ago.”

Maddox’s eyes narrow suspiciously, and his back stiffens. “He wasn’t released. He escaped. That was the reason for my termination. But…you knew that or should have done. I’m sorry, but who exactly are you? You’re clearly not from STF.” His hand suddenly gropes for something under the chair. 

_Blast._ He had hoped he could have kept the charade going a bit longer.

“I’ve taken the liberty of depositing your gun somewhere safe. You won’t find it. I rather hoped we could continue this conversation civilly?” 

Maddox stiffens further, and considers the other man. Mycroft tries to look unguarded and affable. After a moment, the doctor nods, and Mycroft takes the seat opposite him, resting his ankle atop his knee.

“Who are you?” Maddox tires again. Sweat starts breaking out on his face, making his grey hair stick to his forehead. He tugs at his collar and with shaking fingertips sets the cigar against the glass ashtray. Mycroft notices all of this, and takes in to account that he doesn’t have much time left to get his answers. It was time to go for the kill.

“That’s not important at the moment. But it is in your best interest to answer all of my questions.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Ashton Heritage Puro Sol Belicoso Number Two,” Mycroft says holding out his own cigar and examining it in the firelight. “It has a very rich and sweet flavor, I can see why you like it.” Maddox looks dumbly at his own forgotten cigar then back to Mycroft. “It’s perfect for covering up the taste of _Compound Y_ wouldn’t you say Doctor? After all, it is your crowning achievement. The one you tested so rigorously on the citizens of Dartmoor.”

Maddox’s eyes grow wide, and he lets out a choking gasp. 

"You said you weren't from Enquiries," he gasped.

"I'm not, but someone should answer to this injustice."

He bolts to his feet and staggers unsteadily to his bureau, tearing open the drawers frantically. Mycroft eyes him coolly, and makes his way to the centre of the room, his arms clasped behind his back.

“Where is it? The antidote! What have you done?” he shouts.

“I have it, naturally. All will work out in the end if you answer my questions. I am estimating you have about twenty minutes before your heart fails.”

Maddox staggers backwards until he hits the wall, making the window pane behind him rattle. He is sweating profusely now. 

“I’ll tell you…anything…just please,” he says in between large gulps of air. The compound is progressing more rapidly than Mycroft had originally calculated. He should have taken into account Maddox’s already overweight status, and probable existing heart condition. Best cut to the chase, then. He crosses the room in three quick strides, and shoves the man even harder against the wall, causing a few framed pictures to shatter to the ground. His hand curls into his throat just enough to be extremely uncomfortable yet allowing him just enough air to talk at the same time.

“Who is the Director of the Project?”

“I don’t know! There was none ah — please!” he sputters as the fingers tighten.

“Lying would be very counter productive to you living, Doctor.”

“I’m not. N-n-no one from my team ever met the Director. But there was someone else in charge. A second of sorts.”

“Who?” Mycroft growls.

“His name was Moran. Sebastian Moran.”

“Moran? Moriarty’s henchman?”

“Yes, but he was a double agent. He works with the Director, and he oversaw the ‘Reprogramming Prototype Project’ in his stead.”

“Why did the Director want Sherlock Holmes if he had Moran? Surely he of all people spent the most time with Moriarty and had access to the information needed to wipe out all of his consortiums?”

Maddox laughs at this. _Actually laughs._ Mycroft’s eyes blaze in warning, but he doesn’t press on the man’s windpipe for fear of losing what he has to say next.

“Didn’t you read the file? It was about _him._ His _brain._ What it can do. Moriarty planted something in his head. A binary encryption.”

“Which was a complete red herring.”

“Correct, however the idea was there. Implanted in Holmes’s mind, his incredible mind.” Maddox was beginning to get delirious. “We wanted to use him to come up with an actual working key. A key to the world’s weapons systems. The ultimate defence. If anyone could engineer such a thing it would be Holmes. Moran told us that was Moriarty’s plan at the beginning. He needed Holmes’s help to make the key a reality. But towards the end, Moriarty became obsessed with the man himself, infatuated even, and it ended with his life. The Project fell through before such a thing could be completed.”

“You’re quite certain that Sherlock escaped, then?”

“Please…my chest…give me the antidote.”

“ANSWER ME!” Mycroft bellows and slams his fist into the wall behind the doctor’s head. A small bone in his finger breaks. He ignores it.

“Yes! I was there I-I was caught in the blast that tore a hole in the facility. His body was never found among the wreckage. We picked up his trail not five miles from Fort Londbow, but it vanished. Please! Please I don’t know anymore! I swear!”

Mycroft scans his face looking for any signs that show he isn’t telling the truth. When he sees none he lets the man go. He straightens his collar, and produces a prepackaged syringe with an amber liquid inside and slaps it into Maddox’s hand. The man rips it open with his teeth and jabs it into his forearm, relief flooding his features.

“Just one more thing, Doctor,” Mycroft says on his way out, his back to Maddox. “Have you considered a place? Somewhere you’re fond of? Somewhere of _sentimental_ value perhaps?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want to be sure to pass on the message to your estranged wife when it comes time to scatter your remains,” he says and turns around, the gun from under Maddox’s chair firmly gripped in his hand. 

Before the other man has a chance to react, he pulls the trigger without a second glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Your feedback has been helping me! :)


	5. There Were Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I was a little cruel with the last chapter leaving people hanging. I realise this particular time line seems a little convoluted especially since it's still early in my planned story arc, but hang in there with me! If anyone feels like they need a bit more of a time line I will see if I can put in a little explanation. Just let me know. 
> 
> So this is a little shorter because I decided to split this chapter into two. Thanks for reading!

“Doctor Watson.”

John nearly vaults clean off the bed reaching for a rifle that isn’t there. It takes him a moment to register that Anthea, in a black dress suit clicking away on her blackberry, is standing in his room. He tries really hard not to act like a deflowered virgin and resists the urge to clutch the sheets to his bare chest.

“Jesus fu —”

“Your presence is required. Do get dressed. There is a car downstairs waiting for you.” She turns on her heel without having looked up once, and John falls back against the pillows in exasperation.

“I have a bloody phone you know!” he bellows.

*

John was not happy. It had been nearly a year since he had spoken with Mycroft Holmes, and it most definitely wasn’t long enough. In fact, he specifically remembered yelling at the top of his lungs that he never wanted to see the bastard again after he laid a solid right hook into his jaw. He flexes his hand looking back on it fondly. 

“How have you been?” Anthea asks. 

John’s head whips around so fast he nearly gets whiplash. “Sorry, what?”

“How have you been?” she repeats. And she’s actually looking at him, the blackberry momentarily forgotten.

“Er. Fine! Fine, splendid. How have you been? Good?” he asks. 

She looks at him with that wry, blasé expression. “We’re here. You know where to find him,” she says as the car pulls up in front of the Diogenes Club, returning back to her phone.

He exhales loudly through his nose and gets out of the car. No doubt it was just another tactic to manipulate him. Throw him off kilter. He really, _really_ hated being manipulated, and he almost walked away to find the nearest cab back to Baker Street. Almost. It’ll be a short visit, he’ll _guarantee_ it. Resolved, he stomps he way through the ‘Lounge of Stodgy Silent Stuffed Shirts’ and bangs open the doors to Mycroft’s office.

“Hello Doctor Watson.” the British Government behind the desk says, unfazed as usual. “Do shut the door will you?" 

“What do you want?” he bites.

Mycroft lets out a long suffering sigh, and rises to his feet in one stately, fluid motion. Bloody peacock. John notices, as Mycroft passes that his left hand is done up in a splint. He is mildly intrigued at the concept. Who knew ‘The Ice Man’ bled like the rest of us mortals? Once the doors are shut he spins around perfunctorily to face him. John regards him for a moment, and he feels uneasy that the taller man is in between him and the exit. Not like he couldn’t shove through the poncy bastard if he wanted.

“Have a seat,” Mycroft says indicating one of two leather armchairs. It’s polite, but there is an undercurrent hidden under the placid tones that catches John off guard. The tension behind his eyes reminds him of being in the desert again right before his convoy was ambushed. It is visceral and electric, and once the snap occurs, it will change everything. He sits warily on the edge of the polished seat without further protest. Mycroft takes the seat adjacent, and without preamble he asks “Do you remember the last time you came to me?”

“Yes,” John says, a hard edge to his voice. He can’t help but inwardly smirk when he catches Mycroft rubbing his jaw subconsciously as he stares off to the side. “If I remember correctly, exonerating your only brother was below your time or concern. What of it?” The anger builds inside him at the memory sharp and thrumming through him.

Mycroft’s eyes snap to his again. “Would you still be interested in proceeding in this endeavour?”

“Well yeah. Of course. What is this, you offering your resources finally? Because really, I can handle it. I have done this whole time. It’s been a bit slow, but it’s hard to afford a decent solicitor. You know, army doctors don’t get by on pension even with locum work.”

“Your efforts in the case of my brother’s innocence have been…commendable, Doctor. Surely you must know how much that is appreciated.”

“Someone has to stand up for him. I won’t abandon him like you, so you can shove your _appreciation_ right up your jolly —”

“Do you know why Sherlock jumped that day, John?” Mycroft’s abrupt reply effectively cuts off whatever he was about to say. John gapes at him blinking rapidly, his breath coming out uneven and hard.

“Don’t —” he clears his throat. “Don’t _fuck_ with me, Mycroft. You’re on dangerous ground.”

Mycroft adjusts his collar at the baseness of John’s language. He nods, and makes his way to the sideboard against the wall. He takes out two glasses and pours them both a whiskey, the only sound in the room the clinking of crystal. John takes the tumbler offered to him suspiciously, and his eyes follow Mycroft across the room as he goes to stand next to one of the high arched windows. He gazes outside for a moment, takes a sip of his drink, and turns to face John again.

“You’ve done the research. You were there. You know Moriarty twisted and manipulated the facts and especially, the people that surrounded Sherlock.”

“Yes but —”

“Then you must’ve realised there was only ever one solution?” The audacity of this statement has John reeling.

“There bloody well was not!” John says incredulously. He’s had enough. He slams the untouched glass of whiskey on the table next to him and jumps to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his leg. “Look if all of this —” John waves his hand in a frantic indicative gesture, “— is your way of, I don’t know, easing your guilt, then I want no part of it.”

He stomps across the room and grabs the handle fully intending that this is most definitely the last time he will ever associate with Mycroft Holmes.

“Let me be direct then. They were going to kill you, John. Sherlock knew this, and he prevented it the only way he knew how.”

John freezes halfway through opening the door. Mycroft’s words reverberate through out him like a gong. His left hand starts to tremble, and he closes the door with a soft click. “What?” It comes out as a hoarse whisper. He can’t seem to face the other man, and he bows his head. He doesn’t want to believe it, believe that Sherlock really did play Moriarty’s sick game, but deep down he knows it’s true. “The assassins,” he realises.

“Indeed. Moriarty picked the three people that mattered most to my brother and twisted his arm.” There was something in Mycroft’s voice that finally got John to turn around. What he sees nearly takes the floor out from under him. The great Mycroft Holmes, was standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, and he looked so diminished...so _human._ But the most striking thing that arrested John’s attention was his unguarded expression. For the first time, he saw real, human emotion on Mycroft’s face, regret, sorrow, and smouldering underneath — a righteous anger. He knows this one well.

John swallows hard. “Three?”

“Mrs. Hudson, and Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

John has to sit down at this point. He makes his way back to the chair and sits heavily, running a hand over his face. He stares unblinkingly at the ornate rug under his feet until Mycroft’s expensive leather shoes come into view, and he hands him his forgotten whiskey. John downs it in one burning gulp. “Shit.” He's convinced he's in shock.

“You have mistaken me from the start, Doctor Watson. You are under the impression that I am offering my services, but it is I who is asking for your help.”

“Me? What can I do?” he asks dumbly. His brain not fully caught up to the sudden change in tact.

“You can be the leading icon in clearing his name. Your popularity is our greatest asset. You are his strongest character witness, and you have already rallied supporters. With you at the forefront, and my resources, his exoneration will be a swift one.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose, his head spinning. He wanted to immediately jump on the offer because of the promise he made to that marble headstone, but the niggling in the back of his mind reminded him that the Holmeses rarely did anything out of sentiment.

“Why now? Why didn’t you help me when I came to you before?”

“It was a delicate situation. It wouldn’t have been prudent to prove his innocence at the time.”

“Prudent for _who?_ ” John says sharply. There was something he wasn’t getting, and it gave him a bad feeling. This was the snap he was expecting.

Mycroft looks thoroughly uncomfortable now, shifting on the balls of his feet. When he speaks again, he uses a tone akin to calming a wild animal.

“What I am about to tell you, John, you have to realise that it was necessary for everyone involved that you didn’t know...”

John slowly rises to his feet, tensing his muscles on full alert. 

“Mycroft…?” He could feel a howling building up in his head.

“Sherlock’s alive. And he’s coming back.”

Right.

For the second time, John Watson clocks Mycroft soundly in the face.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of this chapter is coming soon!


	6. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part two for the earlier chapter, so if it seems a bit short, well it's because it is. Hope you like it!

John stalks the floor as if he were a caged tiger at the zoo. Never has he been so furious in all his life. He feels as if his whole body is buzzing with it, and the only reason he limited himself to hitting Mycroft only once was because he desperately need to hear what came next.

“What do you bloody mean he’s coming back? That he’s _alive?_ Not even you could be that cruel to make something like that up.”

“It’s not a lie, John,” Mycroft says taking the bloodstained handkerchief away from his nose. “It was, how did he put it… ‘a magic trick.’”

God of course Mycroft would know what Sherlock had said on the roof. The fact made his blood boil, and he nearly started for the arrogant sod again.

“No, you — no. You don’t get to use his words. You don’t get to _ever speak those words_ to me,” he says viciously.

Mycroft nods, conceding the point. “Forgive me, that was tactless,” he says and then rises to his feet to pour another whiskey. The sheer sound of a Holmes apologising stunned John enough to still his frantic pacing. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Again. If he’s not careful he’ll have permanent marks there.

“Mycroft…I really need you to start telling me what’s going on.”

“It was Moriarty’s plan in the end. The final problem. His strange infatuation with my brother drove them both to this inevitable outcome. What better way to prove Sherlock’s fraudulence than one last act of desperation? Sherlock figured it out, of course, and he couldn’t be arsed to ‘go gentle into that good night’* now could he? He wouldn’t be our Sherlock if he had.” Mycroft’s tone was bitter, and John was mildly surprised to hear him curse.

“But I saw the body. I saw him jump…”

“Yes. You did. You saw him,” he says pointedly and drains the glass, grimacing at the bitterness.

“He…? Oh God. Sherlock…” he puts his hand to his mouth in horror, and suddenly it’s too much. He turns around and grips the nearest solid thing, the mahogany mantle piece, until his fingers turn white, and bows his head between his shoulders. “Are you saying,” _he doesn’t dare hope,_ “that he survived?”

Mycroft was silent for a moment. John doesn't move or breathe, it felt as if his heart would rocket out of his chest.

“He did. Just barely. The body we buried was a double.”

Things began to slot into place. Ah. The _body._ The not-Sherlock that’s currently lying cold in the ground.

“Molly,” he says more than asks, positively thunder-struck.

“Don’t worry, Miss Hooper was moved to a safe location after her assistance was no longer required.” John nods, his skin prickling and incensed. He exhales trying to get his temper under control. His memories suddenly flash back to Sherlock’s grave, the last thing he ever said to him. Well didn’t he play the part of a perfect idiot, then?

_‘One more miracle, Sherlock.’_

He nearly gives in to the rising hysteria and bites down on his lip to keep from laughing /crying outright. It’s ridiculous, but he feels like he might benefit from a paper bag right about now. Or a bloody orange blanket.

“Where is he then? Why did he stay away? _Why didn’t he tell me?”_ The Earth stopped spinning long enough for him to turn around. His hands were balled at his sides, and he couldn’t stop himself from shaking.

“It had to be real. Your grief, your mourning. We didn’t know how many were under Moriarty’s directives. If there was any hint that Sherlock didn’t follow through, they would have killed you all.”

“So I was his bloody poster child! That is so like him to just _use_ people like _things_ ,” he spits. The betrayal he feels is palpable, and leaves a sour taste in his mouth that has nothing to do with the whiskey.

“It was my idea, John,” Mycroft says quietly, instantly stilling the torrent in his head. “I convinced him it was for the best that he let you think he was dead while he went after Moriarty’s web. He would have gladly involved you even at the risk of your own life. In fact, he made a plan to come back for you. He is, after all, selfish, and frequently overestimates his abilities. He overestimates your abilities as well.”

The revelation twists something painful in his stomach.

“Oh, God, so you let him throw himself off a building in front of me?” The betrayal turns to something else entirely. His heart turns over painfully in his chest, and he feels ill. He remembers the tears in Sherlock’s voice, _real_ tears, as he asked John to watch: _‘Fix your eyes on me. Will you do this for me, John?’_

It was unfathomable to think what he might have been feeling on that ledge unsure if he would even survive — Sherlock, looking down on him as he got out of the taxi, trying to make John believe in the lie, the horrible ugly lie, all because of Mycroft, all because it was safer for John to hate him and grieve him than drag him through this cold hell. 

And _after_ , after the fall, waking up broken and in pain, and utterly, utterly alone, with the knowledge that it wasn’t over, that he would have to face this evil by himself… 

A lump forms in John’s throat and he tries to ignore the stinging in his eyes. If John learned anything from their friendship, he learned that despite all of Sherlock’s thoughts on the negatives of caring and attachment, despite his wild claims as a sociopath — Sherlock Holmes, in fact, does not thrive on his own; he falls apart.

 _‘I’d be lost without my blogger.’_

“How was that _ever_ your decision to make?” John’s voice is the epitome of violence. He was very lucky there was a desk between them because at this point, murder was the only thing that John could think of to quell the ire in his blood.

Mycroft’s eyes snap to his sharp as daggers. “It is _always_ my decision to make. I am _constantly driven_ by the needs of this country first and foremost, regardless of the cost!” He shouts, stabbing a finger into the hard wood to punctuate his words with a definitive thump. The uncharacteristic outburst from this usually contained man takes John aback.

Mycroft throws the soiled handkerchief on top of his desk in agitation and places his palms flat on either side of a thick red file sitting there front and centre. It is silent between them, and eventually he seems to reach a conclusion. He exhales slowly, and his eyes close for a second before he starts up again, carefully controlled this time. “I have never regretted my decisions because at the time they were necessary, and in several occasions, the only option of recourse,” he fingers idly at the file, “I have, however, been played for a blind fool, and I hope, for Sherlock’s sake, my ignorance doesn’t cost him more than it already has.” He taps the folder with regret in his eyes, and goes to leave. “Hopefully after you read what I’ve done, you will see just how necessary you are in redeeming my folly.”

With that, Mycroft crosses the room and leaves John alone in the office and utterly beside himself. The clicking of the latch sounds like a gunshot in the quiet, and at first he can only stand there staring at the desk. The file seems to be burning, and in his mind he can picture thick waves of heat rolling off of it. It is everything he desperately wants to know, and yet dreads in equal measure.

Stalling only briefly to down another glass of harsh whiskey, he finally makes his way around the desk, and pulls the chair close. His hand hovers over the file, and he takes a deep breath. After a moment, he opens it and starts reading.

***

John’s head was swimming with all of the information that had just been laid upon him. He didn’t really understand the scientific analyses, or the convoluted details of the secret government project that was outlined in the file, and instead tried to make heads or tails of the medical charts. They were unlike any he’d ever seen especially when he skimmed over the EEG readouts. It didn’t make sense, because some of the stuff just wasn’t _possible._ The only thing he was able to discern beyond doubt was that Sherlock was held against his will and tortured for the better part of two years. 

When he reaches the transcripts, his stomach clenches and his eyes blur, and eventually he just slaps the folder shut having read enough for a lifetime.

He sits back in the chair utterly shattered, and stares out the window not really focussing on anything. He doesn’t even notice Mycroft come in until he stands before the desk with his hands in his pockets.

“How did he get involved in all of this?” John asks finally, not able to tear his gaze from the window.

“I…suggested he should join forces with Special Tactics as opposed to hunting down Moriarty’s constituents on his own. They knew about his talents, and convinced me that this was the safest, most efficient way to go about the situation. I was lied to, and they kept him well away from me for the longest time.” Mycroft’s voice falters at the end, and John can hear him holding his breath. It dawns on him that he expects John to fly off on another tirade, but he can’t be arsed. He’s too emotionally drained, and if he’s honest, perhaps a bit sympathetic. After all, before John was there to pick up the pieces and hold Sherlock together, there was Mycroft. He doesn’t dwell on this for too long, however, his anger still too close to the surface. So, he merely nods, and Mycroft continues. “When they continued to refuse to let me see him, I took matters into my own hands.”

“Where is he then?” John asks again in a hushed voice. “The file said he was released a week ago.”

“The dossier is a misrepresentation of the actual events that transpired. I have learned otherwise,” he absently fiddles with the splint on his finger, “that Sherlock engineered an escape.”

“What?” John finally makes eye-contact. “How?”

“Apparently he blasted his way out.”

John gapes at him for a moment before a fit of giggles suddenly bubbles up and out of his mouth. Mycroft looks rather horrified at this, and it only makes him laugh harder. It was finally starting to sink in. Sherlock was _alive._ “Oh Christ, of course the nutter did,” he says at last catching his breath, and wiping his eyes. He couldn’t be sure his tears were solely from laughing. “Have you been able to track him down yet?”

“I have reason to believe that he has a good excuse for maintaining radio silence, most likely until it's safe to reveal himself fully. In the meantime I want to make his return a welcome one, and that is why it is appropriate to proceed with his exoneration. There is more work to be done, and it would be practical if he had access to the resources he once had working with the Met. That is of course, if you are still willing to lead the charge?” Mycroft’s confident expression flickers briefly to uncertainty.

John takes a sobering breath. “So you want me to play a part yeah? Like another one of your puppets?” He can't keep the bitter edge out of his voice.

“No, John. I want you to do what you do best: fight for Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Dylan Thomas quote. For some reason I picture Mycroft as a literary connoisseur. Snobby toff.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Next chapter: SHERLOCK RETURNS! (Finally, I know right, just get on with it, Honey.)


	7. John Watson's War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The months leading up to the court case throw John for a loop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! It's been a while, and I will be honest, this chapter almost did me in. It's a bit long, so I am going to split it just so I can cover the things that I want. I am definitely trying to be fair to those of you who have said you appreciated the slow build, and I want to make sure I'm doing it right. At this point this story is looking to be massive, positively a small novella by the time I'm finished, so bless you all who have stuck with me.
> 
> Additional tags (because I'm a dork): [Sherlock's humanity!](http://icedteaandlemoncake.files.wordpress.com/2012/08/sherlock-sherlock-on-bbc-one-14575491-1280-800.jpg) [John gets shot (almost)](http://i50.tinypic.com/2yovp8g.jpg) [Greg and John bffs](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lyhqalWT8z1qcm3qmo1_500.png) [Mollykins!](http://images4.fanpop.com/image/polls/830000/830170_1315791101187_full.jpg) [do barristers really wear wigs?, yes they really do](http://affordablehousinginstitute.org/blogs/us/wp-content/uploads/cleese_as_a_barrister-228x300.jpg) and [Richenfeels](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/mizuki1988/12950532/1160/original.jpg)
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and since I am splitting the chapter, the next update will be soon I promise.
> 
> Btw. I am not overly familiar with court proceedings, so I did my best given the research I conducted. Anything that's not accurate I employ my artistic license. :D

Mycroft was good on his word. The exoneration took only three months from the ground up, the fastest anyone has ever been cleared in history.

The first month was filled with media chaos that bombarded John on every street corner. He never saw Jeremy Rattner again from the hateful _Baker Street Inquisition,_ but there were plenty of others who wanted to tear Sherlock to shreds. He had to wade through everything they dug up on the consulting detective from his recreational drug use, to his psychological records (which it turned out were bribed off Sherlock’s old shrink) labeling him with sociopathic tendencies. He practically had to beat off people with a stick who offered him ridiculous amounts of money to auction off Sherlock’s things, and had to get another post office box to accommodate the sheer volume of fan /hate mail. John’s character was scrutinised as well for keeping such dubious company, and of course, _of course,_ on his sexual orientation and supposed ‘unrequited love.’ He just stopped correcting them after a while, too busy focussing on the appeals and the solicitors (three of London’s finest) and the impending hearing. By the end of the first month he was back to using his cane full time.

The second month, John decided to try and take back control from the media. He organised rallies, gave interviews, and orchestrated a montage of Sherlock’s greatest cases that went viral after only being on YouTube for three hours. He started up his blog again. He didn’t realise how painful and cathartic, and _necessary_ it was to continue his writing, and he even added some of the smaller cases that especially showcased Sherlock’s humanity. There was one in particular, a small private case that escalated into a kidnapping back before they were really famous. The news article was small, easily overlooked in the mess of the Sunday paper featuring a snapshot of Sherlock crouching in front of a little girl. He had one hand on her shoulder, and the other cupping her cheek as he questioned her about her abductor. John remembered that day well, because it was the first time he had ever seen Sherlock interact with children. 

Normally, he was blunt and brusque, preferring to get straight to the facts than worry about the frayed nerves of the victims, but with children, he was uncommonly patient. This little girl in particular, Emma, John remembered, had an acute case of asthma and was on the brink of an attack without her inhaler in the midst of all the chaos. Sherlock kept her focussed and her breathing steady the entire time until the ambulance showed up. Even then, he remained at her side until she was reunited with her parents. The article of course didn’t mention these things, preferring to talk about the details of the kidnapping instead of the enigmatic detective, only devoting a sentence or two to the ‘good Samaritan’ that had come forth with vital information. Now, however, it seemed extremely necessary that the world knew this part of Sherlock. When he posted it, it was by far one of the most popular blog entries he’d ever done. After scrolling through the endless comments that began to blur together, he was reminded of a conversation they had a long time ago.

_‘Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist and if they did I wouldn’t be one of them.’_

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Hopefully you’ll have a good long sulk about this when you come back, because like it or not, they’ve made you into one.” He waited for a moment unsure for what, until it hit him he was waiting for the Sherlock inside his head to respond with its familiar acerbity. But for the first time, no cutting remark came when he willed it. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but in the end he reasoned it was a good thing.

His limp graciously let up a little after this, but the solicitors suggested he keep using his cane for sympathy. He refused to play their games; he didn’t want to be a pawn. 

By the time the preliminaries went under way, it was like ripping the lid off of Pandora’s proverbial Box. Greg was suspended until further notice as the investigation took place, and Sally Donovan and Kitty Riley were given a witness summons by the prosecuting solicitors. People, from God knows where, came out of the woodwork claiming to be friends and loved ones of actor Richard Brook. They were no doubt low-lifers that were paid off for the sole purpose of maintaining the charade long after Moriarty was gone. But the psychopath was thorough, and it turned out he really did lead a double life as some sort of contingency plan. It spurred a side investigation on the matter of their legitimacy, discrediting few people in the end, and only served to add weeks onto the whole affair. 

After this, people who were against John and the exoneration were getting angrier by the day. The attacks on his blog were to the point where he had to disable commenting, and he hardly ever opened his mail anymore not wanting to bother with any of it, he was so fed up. Mrs. Hudson was starting to worry, and John nearly came unglued when a brick was thrown through her window when she had been over at Mrs. Turner’s one afternoon. Mycroft increased surveillance around Baker Street, and that seemed to help for a while. But, the CCTV cameras could only see so much, and so it shouldn’t have been a surprise, really, when someone pulled a gun on John, and left him bleeding in a scummy alley on his way back from the pub. Luckily, his would-be assassin was a scared kid with shockingly shit aim who took off the second he pulled the trigger, and John only sustained a graze to his side. He fumbled with his phone, blood smearing the screen until he dialed Greg’s number.

“Hey mate. Did you forget something at the Pub?” he answered jokingly.

“Hah. No, but hey, can you come pick me up,” John tried for levity, but his voice shook horribly.

“John? What’s wrong?”

“Shooter. I think I might need a hospital.”

Forty minutes later, John was sitting in an exam room in A&E as they stitched up his side. Greg was sitting in one of the plastic chairs, and every time John would wince he shook his head, and huffed loudly through his nose. When the nurse finally left they sat there a thick silence passing between them…

“All right. Let's have it. You got something to say, so say it,” John challenges.

“Jesus, John,” his friend starts, his voice taught. “You could’ve died!”

“I’m aware of that, ta,” he grumbles sardonically, tugging on his bloodied undershirt. He knew what was coming next.

“What, you still don’t think maybe you should take a step back?” It was the same argument they’d been having for three months.

“Greg, the hearing’s in two days. There’s hardly a point to it now.”

“In two days it’s gonna be a mad house. Sherlock had a lot of enemies, John. After tonight do you think they won’t hesitate to try something? And I highly doubt you’ll be lucky enough to end up with another punk kid and a bullet graze.”

“Oh, come on. I’ll be surrounded by people. And besides Mycroft is probably setting up a protection detail.”

“Well bully for Mycroft. Fat lot of good, that,” he says and gestures to John’s side. He scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs deeply, and John can practically hear his teeth grind in agitation. He recognises what’s eating at him: it’s the feeling of being obsolete. It’s a hard thing when protecting people is practically in your genetic makeup, and you’re suddenly forced to stop when it matters most. John knows this feeling better than anyone.

“How’s civvie life treating you, anyway?” he asks quietly.

“God, John. I feel so goddam useless,” he groans and gets to his feet shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “I can’t even carry my gun. Twenty years on the force, and I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“I know. Soldier, remember?”

“I should have left the pub with you. I could have —”

“Don’t. It might have been worse for all of us. You could have spooked him. Let’s just be glad this was all that it was.”

At this, Detective Inspector Dimmock interrupts them with a knock against the wall, and manoeuvres around the beige privacy curtain. He appraises Lestrade with a smug quirk of his lips. The two men have a tense exchange without any words, and John looks between them apparently invisible. He’s about to speak up when Dimmock finally turns to him.

“Doctor Watson, are you up to giving a brief statement?”

“Give him a break, Charlie, it’s two in the morning,” Lestrade says, a bite to his words. He subtly places himself between him and John.

Dimmock ignores him and keeps staring pointedly at John. “I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

Lestrade cuts in again before John gets a chance. “Where’s Inspector Gregson? I thought she was working this with you?”

“She’s off out talking to a possible witness.”

“Then John will deal with _her_ tomorrow when he’s feeling able,” Lestrade says in a tone that brokered no argument. His eyes clash with John’s.

Flummoxed, but sensing the tension in his friend, he turns to Dimmock, “Yeah,” he says wrapping an arm protectively around his side as he feigns a grimace, “First thing tomorrow, you have my word. But at the mo’ I am well and truly knackered.”

Dimmock looks as if he’s about to argue, but doesn’t press the matter when Lestrade clears his throat. He nods, “Right, then. Tomorrow, full statement. Feel better, Doctor Watson.” He adjusts his jacket and leaves with one last condescending look at Lestrade. 

“Tosser,” he scoffs.

“Mind telling me what that was all about, Greg?” John asks, gingerly shrugging on his jacket. The side was in tatters, most likely beyond Mrs. Hudson’s expertise with a needle and thread. He sighs, realising he would have to get a new one.

“I don’t want him to take your statement,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Well that much is obvious. Why?”

“Before I was suspended, I was looking in on him. I think he’s the one that leaked your statement – about Sherlock,” he says the words gingerly as if holding a glass figurine, one eye on John to gauge his reaction. John tries to school his face to blankness, and he continues “I can’t prove it yet, but Gregson is on my side. God, I can’t wait for this to be over so I can wipe that shit-eating grin right off his face. He always did strut about like he was better than everyone.”

“Yeah, and Sherlock knocked him down a few pegs the first time we worked with him. Probably a grudge, that. Sherlock will be happy to know you are working on getting Dimmock demoted.” John winces when he realises his mistake. “Would be. Would have been,” he falters and rubs the back of his neck. Damn.

Lestrade glances at him, the slip not lost on him. John holds his breath. But instead of suspicion like he expects, there is only sadness and sympathy in his hazel eyes. John remembers that look. He received it often in the months right after when Sherlock’s death had been so raw. It took him almost a whole year to be able to refer to his friend in the past tense. Thankfully, Lestrade seems to chalk it up to the stress of the hearing, and not for what it really is. He squeezes John’s shoulder reassuringly.

“If I get my way, he won’t just be demoted, he’ll be kicked out of Scotland Yard. There’s been one too many reports from suspects claiming he uses excessive force and some of his sergeants have come forward about his apparently sticky fingers in evidence lock up. He’s shit with paperwork too.”

“He sounds like a nightmare,” John says good-naturedly.

“Too right! Here, I’ll give you a ride back to Baker Street.”

“Thanks, Greg. I really appreciate it,” he says, finally feeling the exhaustion slam into him full force. He sways a bit on his feet, and Greg steadies him with a strong hand around the elbow.

“All right?” John nods, trying to shake himself. “John, seriously mate, you should consider stepping back a bit until this is all done. It’s not like it’s the front lines of a war.”

“Says who?” he scoffs bitterly. “It’s the bloody media.”

“I just hate seeing you strung up like a puppet for that Holmes,” he nearly growls. From the instant John explained the role Mycroft had outlined for him, Greg had been against it. “They tear people apart. You’ll be exposed. With as much chaos as there’ll be anyone can take another shot at you.”

“Greg. I’ll be okay. You have to trust me. I –” he stops a moment, and shifts on his feet. “I _have_ to do this.”

Lestrade grunts, the sound sticking somewhere between affirmation and defeat. “Yeah I know you do.”

They spent the trip back to John’s flat in silence, both exhausted and frayed around the edges.

***

“Visitor for you, love!” Mrs. Hudson’s musical cadence of a voice rings out from down stairs.

John stops fussing with his unruly tie and frowns at himself in the bathroom mirror. He wasn’t expecting anyone, insisting to Greg and Mycroft that he needed to at least ride to the courthouse by himself. He needed to take the time so he could mentally steel himself against another ambush of scrutiny. He tries not to think about how utterly shite he is at acting, forcing the panic to the back of his mind. His hands are shaking, and he plucks the knot apart in frustration, letting his tie hang loosely about his neck.

“Okay! Send them up!” he calls, running a hand over his face. He hears meek footsteps on the stairs as he flicks on the kettle. Genuinely curious, he rounds the corner in anticipation just as the door opens. He stops dead in his tracks.

“Molly,” he breathes.

“Hello, John,” she says timidly, her delicate shoulders curving in on themselves under her rose-coloured blouse. Even though she is clearly a ball of nerves, she holds his eyes rock steady. He stares back, searching. He sees there is a fierce determination sparkling in those honey depths, and they cause his breath to catch in his throat. The message is clear, she isn’t sorry for her actions, no sir not one bit, and she would probably do it again many times over. He saw the very same look in his own mirror after he shot that damnable cabbie. There was nothing he regretted in saving Sherlock’s life, even given the heavy cost that came with killing another man. Her eyes dance with a mixture of remorse and defiance, and an innate knowledge that only comes with sacrifice.

John knows he has every right to be angry with her — and in fact he had been quite livid when he learned of her role in all of this. But looking at her now, standing in the middle of 221B, he is blown away by the strength and bravery belied by her unassuming demeanour. He’s never noticed the power that thrums beneath her demure surface, and he finds it is impossible to be angry with her. Instead, his chest expands with gratitude.

He closes the distance between them in two long strides and crushes her to him in a strong embrace. She exhales shakily, and squeezes him back with equal ardour. An entire conversation takes place spoken in silence and thudding hearts.

_‘I’m so sorry you were alone.’_

_‘I understand.’_

_‘I wanted to tell you. Every day.’_

_‘I know. You did good.’_

He buries his face in her soft hair, and pours out three months’ worth of bitterness and stress, but most of all, he pours out his _relief._ He’s had to hide what he knows to be true, that Sherlock Holmes is _alive,_ and most days — no every day — the overwhelming joy threatens to burst out of his chest. The knowledge of how dangerous this is has been an impossible burden, and it’s no wonder he was kept in the dark. But now there’s Molly, and she smells like chamomile and lilac, and her embrace speaks of empathy. To be well and truly understood is overwhelming, and very necessary at this point, because he’s not sure how much he can continue the charade. He’s just so tired.

Molly’s breath hitches, and John can feel tears soaking through his shirt. It hits him just then. While he’s had to keep it together for three months, Molly’s had to pretend for the better part of three _years_ , even having to leave behind her entire life in London. Her loneliness is tangible, a weight that settles deep in her shoulders, and he swallows around a lump in his throat. Surely he can be strong for a little longer. It’s the least he can do to honour her sacrifice. Not sure of his voice, he rubs his hand soothingly up and down her back instead, and ignores the pain in his side when she clutches him a bit tighter around the waist.

“Hey,” he says, his voice tight, and he places a hand on the back of her head.  
“It’s all right.”

She lets out a shuddering sigh, and finally pulls back to look at him. “No it’s not. But it will be.” She smiles, and he squeezes her shoulders once more before they part.

“Kettle’s just boiled. Would you like some tea?”

“Oh, yes please,” she says and then excuses herself to the loo to freshen up a bit. When she comes back after reapplying her eyeliner, she looks a great deal lighter as if a weight has been lifted. She sits across from him at the kitchen table, and blows on her tea, and for a while they just sit there in companionable silence. It’s the most at-ease John has felt since the whole thing started. 

“How’s Sussex treating you, Molly?” he asks. Usually, John’s not a fan of small talk, but right now he aches for normal. He’s also genuinely curious. When he first learned Molly transferred he chocked it up to the fact that Bart’s had too many painful memories, and didn’t think too much of it after that. But when Mycroft mentioned she had been relocated for her safety a frisson of concern raced up his spine. 

“It’s okay,” she says tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He forgot how charming she was to look at. The thing of it was, she didn’t even know she was charming, and it made him fiercely protective of her. He should have kept in touch with her more, but he had been so out of his head. “At first I didn’t think I would like it. Very quiet compared to London, and there really isn’t a whole lot of need for a Medical Examiner. I only work part time anymore.”

“How are – I mean are you —?”

“Oh yes! I have everything I need thanks to Mr. Holmes. I basically feel like I got to retire early,” she chuckles, but it’s rather devoid of humour. It dawns on him that she must be going crazy with nothing to do. John remembers how busy she preferred to keep herself, in either the lab or the morgue until the wee hours of the morning. That’s why she was always such a convenience to Sherlock. They were alike that way: a pair of insomniacs if John had ever seen them.

“Molly,” John starts. He traces the scratches in the table with his fingernail. “What you did for Sherlock I…there are no words to describe my gratitude. You were there when no one else could be.”

Her cheeks pinken, and her eyes flutter with a sudden set of unshed tears before she lowers them. When she speaks, her words are brimming with emotion. “I couldn’t not. What’s a world without Sherlock Holmes? Not a world I want to live in.”

John swallows hard. He reaches out and cups her hand in his, and hopes that his smile can speak what he can’t. He’s always known Molly had an attraction to Sherlock, who could not? ( _‘You being all mysterious with your – cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.’ ‘I don’t do that.’_ ) But for the first time he actually sees her. The love she has for him is bone deep, irrevocable even. Again, he is floored by her courage. Sherlock Holmes is not an easy person to love, yet unbeknownst to him, Molly has given him the whole of her fragile heart.

“Come on, then. Let me fix your tie. We’ll go together, side by side,” she smiles.

“Together,” he nods.

***

Molly and John sit in the cab, taking a moment to brace themselves before they have to fight their way through the swarm of reporters infecting the entrance of Old Bailey. A wave of slick nausea drops into his stomach as he looks at the old courthouse. The same courthouse where Moriarty was put on trial, and now it would be his friend the barristers and media would try to tear apart.

“My God, John,” Molly says. “Is this what it’s been like for you?”

“I’m afraid so. Look, if you want I can go and get the cabbie to drop you off ‘round back.”

“No. Side by side, remember? Besides, I think they already saw me.”

“Ah well. Let’s give them more to talk about, shall we?” John smiles cheekily, and offers his arm. She threads hers through his, and clings on for dear life as they exit the safety of the cab and press through the crowd.

John keeps his gaze trained on the path before him, clenching his jaw and refusing to acknowledge the barrage of questions raining down on him like shrapnel. They crowd in closer, and John pulls Molly into his side so she doesn’t get too jostled. It’s only when they enter the grand foyer of the building that John exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

“Vultures,” he curses, shaking his head.

“Oh John!” Molly exclaims suddenly, stepping away her eyes scanning him from head to toe. “What have you done?”

“What?” John asks, perplexed. He follows her gaze down his shirt and sees the problem. A red line of blood is spotting through the fabric of his light blue dress shirt. “Oh bollocks.” He pulls the shirt away from him to assess the damage. “I must have popped a few stitches, it’s fine.”

“Stitches? What happened?”

“I had a bit of a run-in with someone,” he says evasively, and looks around for the men’s room.

She narrows her eyes. “John...”

“The tosser got himself shot,” Lestrade says striding up to meet them. “Hullo Molly,” he says with a grin at her horrified expression (the git), and pecks her on the cheek. Her shock turns into exasperation, and she glares at him.

Before she could berate him, John cuts in, “It was only a graze. I’m fine really. Although, I could do with some fixing up.”

“Come on,” Lestrade says. “I know where the loo is.”

“Molly, we’ll be right back,” John says over his shoulder, managing to catch the sight of her crossing her arms before he turns and follows his friend.

In the bathroom, John tries fruitlessly to scrub the blood off his shirt while Lestrade looks on with an amused half-smile. He dampens a third paper towel and tries to dab at it again, only making it worse in the process.

“I think that shirt’s done in, mate,” Lestrade chuckles.

“Shit. I have to stand up there in front of everybody in a few minutes. This was my best shirt.” He throws the paper towel in the bin.

“Here,” Lestrade says and unbuttons his suit jacket and tosses it at him. “At least it will cover it up even if it is a little big.”

“Thanks, Greg.” John shrugs into the jacket, and even though it was a bit long, he filled it out in the shoulders quite nicely. “How do I look?”

“Smart. Very smart,” he grins and claps him on the shoulder.

After John’s all sorted, they return to the lobby in search of Molly. They both stop short at the sight of her a little ways away engaging in a heated conversation with another woman. Molly’s back was to them, but John could see the other woman clearly, her body language closed off and defensive, eyes saucer wide. She looked familiar to John, and it took him a moment to figure out why: it was slanderer extraordinaire, Kitty Riley. Her unruly hair was slicked back into a severe bun, and her normally arrogant demeanour was now diminishing steadily with Molly’s every word until she was reduced to a small, trembling thing. A rush of vindication races though him, and he shoots a quizzical look at Greg, as they approach the two in tandem. Kitty spots them immediately and takes off, ducking her head and rushing off to the ladies room, wiping her eyes in the process.

“What in the world did you say to her?” John asks, his cheeks nearly aching with the effort of holding back his bitter grin.

Molly sniffs. “Only what needed to be said.”

“You made her cry.”

“Good.”

“Molly Hooper!” John’s tone is mock admonishment edged with bursting pride.

“She’s really an awful woman,” she says an embarrassed flush staining her cheeks. 

“Yes, she really is,” he chuckles and all three of them enter the court room together. Half way down the aisle, John balks, his breath getting stuck in his throat. This was it. Three months — three years really — of solicitors and legal bureaucracy, and it was all coming to a head in a matter of moments. John would be lying if he said he was fine.

“All right, John?” Lestrade asks.

“Fine. I’m fine,” he nods definitively more so to himself, and slides into the gallery with a friend on either side of him. Molly squeezes his hand encouragingly as the courtroom begins to fill.

“Ah, Doctor Watson,” a deep mordacious voice resonates behind him.

“Mr. Love,” John greets the barrister with a firm handshake.

“Are you ready for this?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he insists.

“Good, good. Just like we rehearsed. Leave the rest to me,” he grins wolfishly. According to Mycroft, he was the best and most ruthless in London, and John was beginning to see why. Normally he was a prosecutor, but he was paid God knows how much to take on Sherlock’s case in his defence. He had a gleam in his eye that practically screamed his passion for tearing people apart, but what John noticed more than his brutality, was that arrogant and tell-tale flicker: Mr. Love was bored, and Sherlock’s case was one of his greatest challenges. John wasn’t sure if he agreed with the abject sense of justice, but he couldn’t deny Mycroft’s obvious choice. This was a man that would do anything to win. It should have been more of a reassurance than it was.

Up to this point, John had refrained from looking in on the trial’s progress, figuring it would be best if he lay by the wayside until the defence was able to make their case. He refused to watch the news or read the papers, and stayed far away from the internet as the trial burned on and the prosecution roared. Now, day three of the trial, it was time for Mr. Love, and John to make their stand, and he realised with a sinking feeling that maybe keeping himself in the dark was a stupid thing to do. He should have prepared, braced himself for what he was getting himself into. His mouth went dry, but before he could entertain thoughts of finding a quick drink of water, everyone was getting to their feet as the Judge took his place.

Everything was a kaleidoscopic blur, barristers launching accusations like machine-gun fire, insidious objections wrought with metaphorical Semtex, Donovan’s guilty admission: _‘One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.’_ Kitty Riley running from the witness box in tears the second she was free to do so:

“Tell the truth! You were in _love_ with Richard Brook weren’t you?” Mr. Love cries, and she breaks down in a sobbing mess before admitting the truth. Her eyes lock onto Molly’s for the briefest of moments, and John looks between the two of them incredulous. Molly’s lips were in a thin line, and she refused to look in his direction.

“Your Honour, the question asked by my learned friend goes to the witness's character, which is impermissible! Surely you cannot allow this as credible evidence!” The other barrister interrupts.

The Judge eyes the prosecutor narrowly before answering, “I’m permitting it, Mr. Gordon, and be advised, you will not do well with questioning my judgment. Mr. Love, I suggest you examine your witnesses with a bit more grace in the future.” 

Mr. Love concedes with a tilt of his head, a vicious grin scything across his face. “Of course, you Honour.”

And then they’re off again, and John’s head is spinning. He almost doesn’t register when Mr. Love finally calls him up to the stand.

“John,” Molly whispers, urging him to his feet. He shoots up a little too fast, a little rush of dizziness fogging his head, and makes his way down the stairs to the front. This was the easy part: the questions and answers they’d gone over numerous times. All John had to do was talk about how much of an asset to society his best friends was, and recount the humanity that he ardently refuted, but possessed nonetheless. It was easy because it was all true.

The hard part was the cross examination. Being under oath meant that John couldn’t deny agreeing to certain conversations that took place between them, most all of which he had no idea how the prosecution managed to get a hold of.

_High functioning sociopath, Anderson. Do your research._

_Will caring about them help save them?_

_I invented Moriarty for my own purposes._

He was shite at lying. And Mr. Gordon knew full well. He twisted the knife. Twisted it hard.

“Do you deny that Sherlock Holmes himself spoke these words to you?”

“No, but you’re taking it all out of context!” John protests. A slick wave of nausea was rolling through him.

“Doctor Watson, please just refrain to answering the question,” the Judge reminds him.

Tight lipped John answers again. “No I don’t deny it.”

“He told you to tell everyone, correct? Tell them that he was a fraud?”

“Yes.” He hoped his voice sounded unaffected even though he was shaking.

“What cause did he give you to ignore the evidence? The _blatant_ confession? Were you lovers?”

“Your Honour, I must ardently object to Mr. Gordon’s line of questioning on the matter of relevance,” Love interjects swiftly.

“Your Honour, if it pleases the court, Miss Riley’s allegiance and her subsequent sway was based on her affections for Richard Brook. Surely the same must be called to question about the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson?”

“I’m afraid I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Gordon. Answer the question, Doctor Watson.”

John swallows, the sides of his throat sticking together in his attempts to moisten it. “No. We were solely flatmates. Our relationship did not extend outside of friendship regardless of what people may have said.” His voice was strong, yet unassuming and even good-natured, like. _It’s all fine._ It briefly threw Gordon for a loop, and John managed a confident grin. It seemed as if his plan to knock John off kilter backfired. “You shouldn’t base your case on internet gossip,” he says cheekily.

“Doctor Watson,” the Judge warns for the second time.

“Apologies, Your Honour.”

Gordon takes a moment to regroup. His eyes flash when he looks back at John, and suddenly there is an electric coil of tension in the air.

“If I may be so bold as to rephrase, Doctor Watson…did you love Sherlock Holmes?’

“I’ve answered that haven’t I?”

“No you misunderstand. I asked if you loved him. Not if you were lovers. Those two things are entirely different.”

“Your Honour, don’t let Mr. Gordon regale the court with his trivial semantics—”

“Mr. Love. Do not tell me how to run my courtroom,” the Judge says sharply. “I will not be disrespected. And Mr. Gordon, sir, if you have a point, make it.”

“I only mean to discern Doctor Watson’s actions. Physical relations spur different motives than genuine ones. Surely platonic love is just as true as romantic love?” The Judge is sceptical, but after a moment he nods for him to proceed. Gordon straightens and smoothes his collar triumphantly. “Doctor Watson. Did you love Sherlock Holmes in any capacity?”

John is beside himself. His mouth works silently, at a loss of how to shape words all of a sudden. He looks up at the gallery, and his eyes lock on Lestrade’s and then Molly’s. “He is — was my best friend, yes.”

“That’s all well and good, but did you love him?”

“He’s brilliant,” John says quietly, almost a whisper. The Judge reminds him yet again to answer the question directly. He stills, an eerie calm settling over him. 

Flashes of their life stretched out before John — tearing through London’s dark streets, laughing as though drunk on adrenaline, being well and fully alive for the first time since he was invalided. Sherlock trying to teach him his craft, and lighting up when John called him amazing or fantastic. Sherlock making him feel needed, actually being needed, being the only one to take care of him because he wanted to and not because he was obligated. And then the fear and confusion as he watched helplessly as his friend jumped off that roof, all for him and the people he cared for in the most selfless act John has ever witnessed. Aching crushing loss in his chest for years, and then, oh then, the unparalleled joy of knowing he’s alive. He swallows around a lump in his throat, and tries to look Gordon defiantly in the eyes despite the moisture gathered in his own.

“Yes. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know! I know I said Sherlock would be in the next chapter I'm sorry I lied! Soon soon I promise! Don't hate me!


	8. Brass Numbers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to update this a quickly as possible! Hope you like it. It's my interpretation on how everything might have gone down during the trial and after.  
> Oh I also keep good on my promises... ;)
> 
> Additional Tags: [Mr. Love is a terrible name for a barrister,](http://leanlitigation.typepad.com/.a/6a00e54feef5b08833014e872ae6e9970d-800wi) [ Anthea!,](http://images3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20130218225260/bakerstreet/images/4/43/Anthea.jpg) more _italics_ , [court? (I have no idea what I'm doing),](http://farm2.staticflickr.com/1239/5110211505_485fca6701_z.jpg) [Lestrade's POV,](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/flawed_x_design/32600150/47342/47342_original.gif) [bro-feels,](http://i.ytimg.com/vi/7GPlAQWMbGE/0.jpg) [proper english blokes,](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ls73w1qxoj1qkwi7to1_500.jpg) [reunion methinks?](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m2iwwtyi9J1qi5c9lo1_500.png)
> 
> Enjoy. And thank you all who have kept up so far.

The tension in the courtroom snaps, and exclamations and murmurs break out among the people in the gallery, and the Judge raises his voice over the crowd to rein in order. When it’s finally quiet, Mr. Gordon speaks up.

“Your Honour, if it pleases the court, it is my recommendation that Doctor Watson’s testimony in this case be thrown out just as Miss Riley’s was due to the nature of their relationship.” His eyes gleam _check mate._

John’s heart sinks, and Love bolts to his feet, clenching his jaw against what was no doubt a tirade forming behind his teeth. The Judge regards John with something like regret.

“I am afraid in the interest of fairness; I will have to agree with Mr. Gordon.”

“But that’s not fair at all!” someone exclaims from the gallery. John looks up and sees Lestrade suddenly on his feet, Molly trying to yank him down by his arm. 

“You, sir, are in contempt of court, and you best sit down before I have you thrown in a cell!” The Judge growls, but it’s of no use as the damage has been done. The entire courtroom is in full upheaval now with protests and various remarks, some indignant, and some triumphant. The Judge gets to his feet. “Order! I _will_ have order!” 

In the midst of the chaos no one but John notices when Anthea, of all people, strides into the courtroom with a manila envelope clutched tightly in her hand. She leans over the partition speaking rapidly to Mr. Love before opening it and tipping something small and black into his palm. His lips twist in a smug smirk as he inspects it, and when he holds it up to get a better look, John sees that it’s a mobile phone.

John’s eyes lock on Anthea's from across the room, and a small clever smile plays on her face.

“Your Honour!” Mr. Love’s voice rises assuredly over the noise, and the commotion dies instantly. “I have new evidence brought to light for the defence!”

The Judge, positively red-face with the audacity of his unruly court sputters, “ _New evidence?_ You can’t just submit new evidence!”

Mr. Love hurries to the bench, pulling a set of documents out of the envelope along with a silver disc. The Judge pulls out his glasses and looks them over, a deep frown lining his face. He looks back and forth between the papers and his lips purse in a thin line. Finally, after checking and double checking, he lets out a disgruntled sigh.

“This evidence has been cleared, and I have no choice but to allow the defence to proceed. Mr. Love, carry on.”

Gordon looks panicked now much to the glee of Mr. Love, and the barrister starts as if he wants to dismiss John, but last minute thinks better of it, and launches off.

“For the record, let the personal mobile phone of Mr. Sherlock Holmes represent Item A as well as subsequent transcript, and audio file recovered off said device.” John inhales sharply his mind reeling, and the air seems to be sucked out of the room. _Sherlock’s phone._ The phone that was never recovered. How in the bloody hell did Mycroft manage to get it? 

Mr. Love makes his way to the bailiff, and hands him the disc. The bailiff manoeuvres around to the sound system, and adjusts the dials until a familiar voice crackles over the speakers, reverberating around the courtroom.

 _“I knew you’d fall for it.”_ The vitriolic cadence of Jim Moriarty brings bile to the back of John’s throat. _“That’s your weakness – you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it.”_

 _“Do it? Do…do what?”_ Sherlock’s familiar baritone causes John’s heart to lurch painfully. The bewilderment in his voice leading to dawning realisation forces his eyes closed and he grips the rail in front of him. _“Yes of course. My suicide.”_

_“‘Genius Detective Proved to be a Fraud.’ I read it in the paper so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales. And pretty grim ones too.”_

_“I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity.”_

_“Oh just kill yourself. It’s a lot less effort. Go on. For me. Pleeeease?”_

Suddenly there’s the sound of a scuffle, and Moriarty crying out in surprise. _“You’re insane!”_ the Sherlock on the recording spits.

_“You’re just getting that now? Okay let me give you a little extra incentive. You’re friends will die if you don’t.”_

_“John?”_ John’s heart kicks painfully in his chest.

_“Not just John. Everyone.”_

_“Mrs. Hudson?”_

_“Everyone.”_

_“Lestrade.”_ The resignation in Sherlock’s voice is crushing.

_“Three bullets; three gunman; three victims. There’s no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump.”_

The recording cuts out at this point, and it’s all John can do to keep standing. He brings a hand to his chest as if struck by a blow. The silence that falls over the courtroom is deafening.

“Doctor Watson,” Love addresses him quietly. John scrubs a hand over his face, and meets the barrister’s eyes. “Were you aware of this conversation between James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes?”

“No,” his voice is rough. “No. I had no idea.”

“Where were you?”

“On my way to Bart’s. I got a call telling me Mrs. Hudson had been shot and so I left him behind to go check on her.”

“And was she? Shot that is?”

“No. She was fine. It was a trick to get me to leave. I realised something was wrong right away, and so I turned straight around.”

“And when you got there, what happened?” Love puts a hand on the railing in front of John, his tone of voice sympathetic.

John takes a breath and shakes his head. “My phone rang,” he answers in a broken voice. Love waits patiently while John takes a moment. It was the worst conversation of his life, every word burned into him each night he dreamed of Sherlock falling over and over — he clung to the knowledge that Sherlock was alive in order to be able to raise his head and continue on with some semblance of dignity. “It was Sherlock. He-he wanted – he told me to look at him. He needed a witness.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me it was his note. _I_ was. He wanted me to…tell everyone he confessed to being a fraud. ‘Anyone who would listen.’”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.” 

_‘No one will ever convince me that you told a lie.’_

“Why didn’t you believe him?”

“Because I know him. Better than anyone. I saw him in the times when he thought no one was looking; after a case that went wrong, after a murderer went free, when anyone that he cared for was threatened…I was there for it all. The ‘high functioning sociopath’ bit was an act. Probably because he had so many enemies and he realised what that meant. He was a target; anyone could get to him through the people he…loved.”

Mr. Love nods and looks at John evenly. “Thank you Doctor Watson. It appears you were right all along about your friend, and I am so sorry. You may leave the stand.” John tilts his head in acknowledgment, and makes his way back to the gallery, his knees like jelly. Abruptly, Love’s fire that had been tempered down to a smoulder while he questioned John lit up full blaze as he addressed the court with triumph:

“Mr. Holmes knew he was being blackmailed to a deplorable degree, and so he took precautions by recording this particular conversation moments before he committed suicide. My records indicate that this has been authenticated by three different sources, and that the voices on that audio file are indeed Sherlock Holmes, and Richard Brook a.k.a. James Moriarty. Sherlock Holmes was not a criminal mastermind; he was in fact, a good man who paid a dear price in attempting to expose the real evil that plagued our fair city. His name should not be held in vain for any longer. If it pleases the court, your Honour, the defence rests.”

***

“Bloody buggering fuck. I still can’t believe it,” Greg says with a grin on his face as he takes a large gulp of his ale. “Sherlock bleedin’ Holmes, exonerated!”

“Yeah I know. It’s surreal,” John says with a matching smile that makes Greg’s cheeks ache just to look at and John orders another pint for himself. “In under five minutes, too. He’ll be pleased. Moriarty’s took six.” 

Greg’s smile fades a little. “You still do that,” he says quietly.

John frowns a little before he realises what he was on about. He inhales sharply, and lowers his eyes. “Yeah…I do don’t I?” He peers at him guardedly as he takes a sip.

“Listen, mate. I’m not trying to — I mean I just…I worry about you. Now that this is over,” he says uncomfortably. It’s been eating at him since the whole process started. At first when John told him about the hearing, he had been excited as he was. After all, his enthusiasm was catching. It was like having the old John Watson back, brimming with purpose. He’d almost forgotten how it was like before Sherlock died, it had been so long, but the longer Greg observed, the more he realised how much his friend had changed since then. He was worried that this vibrant John would fade again back to simply functioning now that this was done.

“Ah, no need to worry about me, Greg. I’m all right.”

“Are you? Really?” Greg looks at him levelly. Maybe it was the drink, but he was suddenly seized with vehemence. His voice when he continued was ragged. “Can you finally put him to rest now?”

John blinks, a little taken aback. “What’s this about?”

“It’s just…you didn’t see yourself, mate. You were always hanging on his coattails, and when he died you just, I dunno, forgot to live.” Distantly Greg realises he should be appalled with himself for being so blunt. Proper English blokes don’t do…this. Maybe he is a little drunk, then. But all the things he’s been meaning to say during the past three months of this ruddy nightmare have festered under his skin something fierce.

John takes a sobering breath, staring down into his glass. “You didn’t know me before Sherlock, did you Greg?” he asks after a while. He says Sherlock’s name as if it were an event.

“No. I didn’t,” he says, mildly surprised.

“I’m not going to lie. I was in a bad way. Recently invalided from the Army; no friends; the only family a drunken sister who I don’t get on with; PTSD and a psychosomatic limp. I don’t know if you remember, but the first time we met I was using a cane.”

Greg grunts. “I sort of remember something like that, yeah. Just figured it was a war wound.”

“Yeah if only. Was shot in the shoulder, actually. No, the limp was entirely in my head. Even went to a bloody awful therapist for it. It’s still there from time to time. Had to use the cane a couple of months ago when it was real bad.”

“Yeah I remember,” he nods taking a long pull of his ale. “What made it go away, then?”

“Sherlock. He cured it completely. It was mad.”

“How do you mean?”

“He brought the war back to me. London’s war,” the nostalgic glint in John’s eye verged on manic, and Greg huffs a laugh.

“That is mad.” But he understands exactly what John means.

“S’why I stopped therapy,” John agrees with a cheeky grin. “She would have had a field day.”

“Christ,” he chuckles. Who knew? Unassuming John Watson, GP at some low income surgery. Wears cuddly jumpers. Drinks tea. Utterly insane. And a crack shot to boot. That’s what his CV should read, anyway. “I take it back. You never rode his coattails did you?”

“Nah. We sort of…balanced each other, ironically.”

“I always said he was more even-keeled around you.”

John drains the last of his drink, and rolls the empty glass between his palms thoughtfully. “What was he like…when you met him? I never did hear that story.”

Greg sighs and stares off into the distance. “It was eight years ago back when I was still a Sergeant. There was a triple homicide over in the East End, drug deal gone wrong. Sherlock and another bloke were brought in for questioning both high as kites. The other man was a raving junkie, but Sherlock was rather composed if not agitated from the crawls. The blighter told me how I should conduct my interrogation,” Greg laughs at the memory.

“Of course he did,” John shakes his head.

“The thing was, he gave good advice, sod him. He used to tell me, ‘It’s about body language, Sergeant. You have to make the other man feel intimidated and like he won’t leave the room alive unless he tells you what you want. Let’s try that again, and this time get in my face.’ He told me I should practise not blinking for extended amounts of time.”

“The arrogance!” John snorts.

“Too right! Thing was, I _would_ actually practise on Clarice until it made her uncomfortable and she banished me from the room. I can honestly say I can beat anyone in a staring contest, hands down.” At this he catches John’s eye, and they both square off dead serious before John can’t help it, and breaks out in a fit of giggling. Which sets him off in his own bout of hysterics

“Bloody ridiculous,” John gasps.

“Utter wanker,” Greg agrees finally managing a breath of his own. “I was desperate. Always was, God help me.” 

“So what happened after that?”

“He told me that he didn’t see the shooter, running out the moment he showed up and noticed the deal went pear-shaped. Wrong place, wrong time sort of thing. But he told me that he was pretty positive that these shootings were related to the ones in Brixton earlier that same month, after he insulted the lot of us, that is. Going on and on about tyre tread and a shooter with tendonitis. The rest of the officers on the case passed it off as just drug addled paranoia but…”

“Didn’t feel right?” John smirks. Greg nods and finishes off the rest off his drink. “Ah the good ol’ Lestrade hunch. Classic, that.”

“Yeah. I was the only one who listened to him, and looked in on the cases side by side. What appeared to be two random incidents were actually connected by the fact that the marks pealing out from each scene had a bald-tread tyre on the right hand side. It was incredible. If he was right, I would be sitting pretty. So I went back that same night and decided to talk to him. We struck a deal of sorts. I told him I would have him processed and released before the weekend if he told me everything he could about the two cases. It was quid pro quo…” Greg drops off at the point shifting uncomfortably. It almost sounds like a justification in his ears, and he doesn’t want that. He faced the consequences of what he did, and he wasn’t proud, but he tried to put it to rights as best as he could and he had to believe that was enough now that —

John notices the change in the conversation. “Was that bad? You each did each other a favour.”

“He was meant to go to rehab directly after his stay in lock up for a couple of days according to his brother.”

“Oh so you’ve met Mycroft before then?” John asks sardonically.

“Yes…The day after – after Sherlock tried to kill himself for the first time.”

John flinches violently as if he’s been slapped. He sucks in a sharp breath and purses his lips together. “Jesus. What…how?”

“Overdose. At first they thought it was accidental, but Mycroft knew better. He sought me out and threatened me all cryptic-like. I think he brought me to an old factory if I remember it right.”

“He sure has a flair for the dramatic,” John tries to joke, but his face is drawn and pale.

“Yeah, well I didn’t need him to make me feel bad. I was already managing that on my own just fine.” Greg rubs the back of his neck to ease some of the tension. “You see I knew I should have held him. He was in a right bad way. I’ve seen it before, my mum you know, and I knew what that kind of desperation leads to. I was just too wrapped up in getting mine. I didn’t see him again for a whole year after that. He was clean by the time he came ‘round again which was good, and by that time I made Detective Inspector. He was homeless for a brief stint, could never get on with a proper landlord and all, and I lent out my garage for as long as Clarice would let me.” 

“He lived with you?” John asks incredulous.

“Yeah, mate. For two whole months. Even came ‘round for Christmas one year. Stayed for twenty minutes just to talk about a case, of course, but I wouldn’t let him leave without at least eating a plate of ham. Bloody nightmare, that. Now do you know why I sympathised with you when I found out you were flatmates?” He chuckles bitterly. “I always wondered why he didn’t really have any family other than that brother. Seemed to me he just needed a father-figure from time to time, keep him off the streets and fed not because they were obligated, but because they genuinely cared about his well-being.”

They lapse into a thoughtful silence, and Greg looks around the pub idly. The evening crowd is starting to taper off bit by bit, the cigarette smoke swirling about above their heads starting to clear, and Greg thinks longingly about his emergency pack locked up in the top drawer of his desk back at work.

Finally, John clears his throat. “I’m so sorry, Greg. I was too involved in my own grief after he — died that I didn’t realise what he meant to you.” Greg looks at him, and tries to interpret the sudden trepidation on his friend’s face.

“Ah. S’alright.” His voice is gruff. “I’m just glad I was right in the end.”

“Right about what?”

“I knew one day he could be a good man.”

***

The media frenzy after the exoneration dies suddenly like a flame without air now that the drama of the hearing is finally over. John gets several interview requests, but he declines them all, sticking to making a statement on his blog instead. Now that it’s over, he feels like he could sleep for days on end. He doesn’t though. Life goes on regardless of the fact that he is simultaneously relieved, yet sitting on tenterhooks awaiting any news on the whereabouts of Sherlock. Some nights he wakes up screaming from a nightmare that this all never happened, and that he’s cracked and delusional. It’s ridiculous, but to reassure himself, he keeps the front page of the Sun with the bold letters: _SHERLOCK HOLMES: CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES_ next to his bed. 

He nearly texts Mycroft every day to check if he’s heard anything. He doesn’t care if he’s being inconvenient, and he suspects Mycroft doesn’t really mind in the end either. John senses that he’s just as worried as he is, and tries not to dwell on what exactly that means if the British Government himself is at a loss. So he waits, and does what any good Brit does and carries on.

Looking back on it, John could place exactly when he knew Sherlock was coming back. It was just over a month after the exoneration and he was on his way back from Tesco’s, arms full of bags deciding to walk instead of take the Tube, when it suddenly hit him that his limp was completely gone. No traces what so ever. He stops in his tracks on the pavement, and bounces from one foot to the other, and when his bad leg holds solid for the first time in three years, a frission of anticipation from God knows where runs through him.

That night, he methodically puts away the groceries, makes some tea, and checks his blog. When that’s done, he re-heats some leftovers and eats it in front of the telly, not really paying attention to either task. He’s doing everything on auto-pilot, and he can’t seem to get his mind to focus on one particular thing. He doesn’t know what this feeling is, but he knows the air is thick and alive in the small flat of 221B.

Close to midnight, he stands in the middle of the lounge and just casts his eyes about the room. Everything looks the same, and yet everything looks stark and different, the only light from the kitchen throwing unfamiliar shadows on the walls. He flexes his hands, a nervous gesture, and nods to absolutely no one before going upstairs to his room for the night. He lies in his bed for a moment wondering at how he is possibly going to be able to sleep when tension is positively crackling like electricity all around him, when he drops off suddenly into slumber…

John’s dreams are a chaotic blur of the past and present. He’s in the middle of a battle zone on minute, and the next he is gliding across rooftops while a hot desert sun is beating down on him. Sherlock in his greatcoat is always just in front of him, and no matter how hard he tries to get a look at his face, John is always just out of reach. Suddenly there is the hammering of machine-gun fire, and John bolts upright, sweat sticking his shirt uncomfortably to his chest and back. He’s awake and alert, but for some reason the machine-guns from his nightmare won’t stop. He blinks rapidly to clear the last bit of haze, and he realises with a start that the banging is in fact, coming from the front door.

Panicked and confused, he stumbles down both flights of stairs nearly turning an ankle, his adrenaline soaking his blood by the second. The knocking is urgent, almost hostile-sounding, and for a moment he thinks about going to check on Mrs. Hudson before he remembers she’s away visiting her sister. Which is probably a good thing, he muses, as the person on the other side of the door is clearly out of their head and frantic. They sound like they are about to come right through the wood, and John steels himself for whatever the fuck he’s about to get himself into, and yanks open the door.

He is met with wide, achingly familiar blue-grey eyes, and the air leaves his lungs.

“Sher –?”

“John…J-John Watson,” Sherlock blurts. His face is contorted in what appears to be a painful sort of glee. John sees that the side of his face is streaked with blood, and his heart jolts painfully at the fact that this is how he looked the last time he saw him. For a moment he thinks he’s still dreaming, but no, it’s different. The blood is dry and cracked, leaving spots against his neck and on the shoulder of his white tee shirt, grubby with dirt and damp. He’s also holding himself strangely, and arm curled protectively around his ribs. Before he can do anything more, Sherlock begins talking again, rapid-fire. 

“John Hamish Watson; Army Doctor, Captain from the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers; invalided home, gunshot wound to the left shoulder, psychosomatic limp, PTSD; tan face, tan hands, none above the wrists, not sunbathing, needs a flatshare, Army pension; no family, just Harry, ‘To Harry from Clara’ three kisses, alcoholic, scratches on the phone, Harry is short for Harriet —” Suddenly, Sherlock inhales sharply, doubling over until his shoulder hits the door frame as if he is barely holding himself up. “You’re real, John. You’re _alive._ ”

Up to this point John had been stunned speechless. But with the last, broken and agonised exhalation, he is spurred into action. He grips Sherlock’s biceps, his skin icy cold, and tries to hold him up.

“Sherlock,” he manages though a tight lump in his throat. 

At this, Sherlock cries out in pain, his eyes slamming shut as his whole body seems to lock and go rigid. He falls forward, but John is there, and he catches him before he falls. He manages to half-drag Sherlock into the hall and set him on the floor upright against the wall. He kneels in front of him, and cups his jaw to hold his head steady so he can look into his eyes for any signs of head trauma. Sherlock’s hand comes up and latches itself around his wrist like a vice.

“You’re real, John,” he practically sobs, and it’s positively the worst sound John has ever heard.

“Yes, I am. I promise.” He doesn’t know what he’s promising, but it seems like the right thing to say. Sherlock closes his eyes in what seems to be relief, and swallows painfully a few times. “My God, Sherlock. What happened to you?” he whispers.

“I followed the numbers, John. I knew you were real. The brass numbers. I never forgot; they could never make me forget,” he mumbles, and his head drops forward as he loses consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transcript credit goes to [Ariane DeVere](http://www.arianedevere.livejournal.com/30648.html)


	9. Annihilation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the Walls come crashing down...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends, this chapter is a little short, but I hope you like it. My own meandering thoughts on how Sherlock survived dabble a bit into some magical realism which I love to play around with. This concept is actually what this whole (soon to be) series is about. I hope I do it justice. Thank you all who have kept up with me, I will try to not leave you hanging.
> 
> Additional tags: [this author is a terrible person to poor sherlock](http://24.media.tumblr.com/be54a1e71a13336ae46e6c2dc3448716/tumblr_mgcbh9OnZP1rhi9oeo1_500.gif)

“Sherlock?” John says, trying to rouse him. He didn’t notice before, but Sherlock’s skin is burning with fever where it once was ice cold. He wonders how long he had been wandering around in the frigid March air barefoot and only in a cotton shirt and pyjama bottoms. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s forehead and slowly tips it back so he can look into his face. He sees that he has a deep gash on his left temple that will probably need stitches, and he gently runs his fingers down his battered torso: broken ribs, then. At least two. “Sherlock,” he tries again, and this time his pale eyes flutter open. Instantly, his face contorts into a grimace of pain, but he manages the semblance of a smile.

“You’re still here.”

“Yeah, mate. I’m here.” Something lurches painfully in John’s chest. It dawns on him that this is the first proper conversation he’s had with Sherlock in over three years — something he never thought he would ever get to do again.

“You won’t go?” Sherlock’s brows come together in his trademark analytical frown as if still trying to suss out whether or not John was real.

“No. I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

Sherlock bites his bottom lip uncertainly, and he brings a clammy hand up to John’s face and paws at it clumsily, his energy spent. John lets him gather as much evidence as he needs, even bracing him by the shoulders to complete the circuit of physical contact. Finally satisfied, Sherlock nods. “Good. Okay. Good.” 

He suddenly hisses in pain as another rigid tremor wracks his frame that nearly has his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“Sherlock! What’s wrong? Where are you hurt? You need to tell me so I can help.” John’s voice is low and urgent, his Doctor self flipping on in attempts to subdue the oily panic in his gut because he’s bloody scared there is something terribly wrong with his friend. His mind roves over all the life threatening possibilities, internal bleeding being at the top of the list. “I might need to call the hospital —”

“No!” Sherlock’s hand suddenly grabs the front of John’s shirt, terror etched into his face. “No hospital! Please, they’ll find me.”

“They who’s they?” John tries to ask, but Sherlock convulses again, this time a sharp angonised scream makes its way past his lips as his body locks and trembles. John immediately thinks it a seizure, but it’s all wrong, and within seconds, Sherlock is boneless again, but still conscious if just barely. 

_“Please,”_ Sherlock whispers almost angrily, his eyes swimming in and out of focus. The Captain comes out in him just then, and before he’s even conscious of doing it, he’s half way up the stairs with Sherlock flung over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, and he’s knocking open the door to the flat with his foot, dumping Sherlock unceremoniously on the sofa.

He groans and curls in on himself, shivering, and John grabs a thick quilt from the back of the chair and wraps it about him like a cocoon. He flies up the stairs to his room and grabs his med bag and runs back to Sherlock’s side.

“It’s my head, John,” Sherlock grinds out through clenched teeth. “The walls in my head. They’re all crashing, coming down —” His words are cut off again as another vice of pain winds itself around his frame, causing his spine to arc violently off the sofa before slamming him back down against the cushions. “Please. Do something. Make it stop,” he bites out at last, reaching for John with one trembling hand as he digs frantically in the depths of his bag. The image is so hauntingly familiar it brings him up short for a brief moment. Sherlock’s eyes are bright with tears, his face pleading. John’s shaking fingers finally close around what he was looking for, and he kneels on the floor by the sofa.

“All right. I’ve got you,” John says and sticks a syringe into Sherlock’s arm before grasping that hand and holding it tight against his chest until the sedative kicks in. Sherlock’s wild and fevered eyes never leave John’s, and his grasp is impossibly tight as small, short-lived spasms continue to rocket through him. The pain traps the air in his lungs, and his mouth is open in a moue of distress. “Keep breathing, Sherlock. It’s almost over, I promise, but you need to breathe.” Sherlock shakes his head, panic creeping into his face before a stuttering gasp scrapes up his throat. Bit by torturous bit, and with John's continual coaxing, breathing comes a little easier and before long Sherlock’s grip slackens, relief flooding his face. His eyes slide mercifully shut.

John’s mobile chimes from somewhere breaking the silence, and he scrambles around in the semi-dark of the lounge until he finds his jacket. He thrusts his hand into the pocket and pulls it out with shaking fingers. It’s a text message:

_En route. Ten minutes MH_

Mycroft must have been alerted via his CCTV surveillance, which is all well and good, because right now John is utterly at a loss. He scans Sherlock, and other than his contusions and a few broken ribs, he has no bloody clue what could be the cause of Sherlock’s terrible pain. A list of deadly exotic diseases he’s only read in texts swirls about in his head with horrifying clarity and threatens to pull him down into the mire of his panic. He mentally shakes himself.

“Get a grip, Watson,” he says out loud to himself, and goes into the kitchen to fetch a bowl of warm water and a clean flannel. One thing at a time.

He returns to Sherlock’s side and sits on the small coffee table in front of the sofa. The gash on his head definitely needed stitching. It had broken open again and was slowly oozing more blood, plastering the hair at his temple into a matted hopeless mess. As gently as he could manage, John began cleaning as much of the dried blood off his face and neck as he could. Every once in a while, Sherlock would moan softly, his eyes flickering rapidly under his lids which were shiny with sweat. John takes his temperature, and it was hovering just between 38 and 38.5 degrees Celsius. All of it, it was going from bad to worse... 

John sighs, taking a brief moment to him self and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He puts his head in his hands, and lets himself feel just a tiny bit sorry for himself. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Sherlock was supposed to ride in on a blaze of glory, and they would go back to their funny life with tea and toast and bloody magnificent danger. He huffs in frustration disgusted with this wallowing lark, and he mentally kicks himself in the arse. Of course it wasn’t that simple. He read the transcripts from that blasted file for chrissake’s. God only knew what Sherlock went though just to get back to him. What those bastards _did._ He could murder someone, he really could.

He rouses himself out of his fugue when he hears quick clipped steps ascending the stairs. John can’t even bring himself to stand when Mycroft walks in, he just sits looking forlornly at his friend with his hands clasped and hanging between his knees.

Mycroft makes an abortive gesture towards them then stops, shifting his weight anxiously from foot to foot.

“Is he – I mean – what happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me that,” John says and reaches for his bag again, pulling out a suture kit. “He says there are people after him.”

Mycroft’s face darkens. “There _were,_ ” he says cryptically. John stops what he’s doing, and trains a look on him that says ‘don’t-give-me-that-enigmatic-Holmes-shit-I’m-in-this-too.’ Wisely, Mycroft continues. “We found…a car off the motorway not far from here upended at the bottom of an embankment. I made sure his abductors were taken care of. To my knowledge, no one knows he’s here.”

“Right. Good,” John says, and resumes stitching up Sherlock’s head. Both men are quiet, and Mycroft makes his way to stand at John’s side to observe his brother. John makes the mistake of looking up briefly. The look on Mycroft’s face startles him; it is a haunted look torn between relief, joy, and deep fissures of guilt. He hurriedly looks away feeling like he’s being intrusive, and he really shouldn’t be seeing…whatever it is he’s seeing take place before him. That whole ‘Iceman’ persona really was a load of crap.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen him?” John asks eventually, tying off the end of the suture, and unwrapping a length of gauze.

Mycroft clears his throat. “Two years, eight months and nineteen days,” he supplies automatically. The robotic response is at odds with the softness of his voice, and it’s about as sentimental as a statement John’s ever heard from the man. The fact that the response wasn’t something arbitrary like _‘A bloody long time, mate,’_ harkened to something deep within Mycroft’s character. It was a contradiction to those who didn’t know him, but based on the past few months, John was now able to feel the weight behind the seemingly clinical reply — how every day Sherlock was missing or in danger was like an iron chain of burden and guilt around his neck. 

John has the grace not to say anything. Instead, he finishes taping the gauze in place around Sherlock’s head in silence, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead to gauge his temperature one more time. It’s still a bit warm, so he shucks off the quilt, and grabs the much lighter throw instead. Sherlock doesn’t stir. If it weren’t for the rapid motion under his lids, John would be more concerned.

“What did you give him?” Mycroft asks reaching out a pale, long-fingered hand to check the pulse in his neck.

“Sedative.” 

Mycroft makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. “With Sherlock’s history giving him any form of sedation is most unwise.”

“Hey, I know all right? But it’s not like I had much of a choice!” John bristles under the implication of his incompetence, but let's it go for the most part. He angrily packs up his equipment, and crams it back in the bag. “He didn’t want me to take him to hospital but he – I can’t be sure, Mycroft, but is he sick?”

Mycroft’s eyes snap to his in alarm. “Why do you say that?”

“He kept talking about – about the walls in his mind…breaking. He was out of his head with pain, and I don’t know what’s caused it. It’s not something that can be associated to the injuries he has now. I checked him for head trauma and there’s no indication.” He scrubs a hand through his hair in frustration. “If you know anything, anything at all as to what this is, I need to know right bloody now, Mycroft. Medical history, the lot.”

Mycroft’s face pales, and with a weary sigh he sits on the edge of the sofa by Sherlock’s feet. He contemplates his younger brother silently for a moment, bringing his tented fingers up to his lips in a pose that is achingly familiar. John waits patiently in the middle of the room with his arms crossed.

“You never asked me how he survived,” he starts.

“It’s not something I like to think about,” John says shortly. “Besides I didn’t think it mattered so long as he was alive.”

“Do you honestly think Sherlock would have risked everything on the _off chance_ that he would live through such devastation? That he didn’t have a plan?” Mycroft arches an eyebrow condescendingly. “You saw him yourself. Living through that was nearly impossible.”

Crimson blood and a set of bleached blue eyes flash through John’s mind, and he winces. “Why don’t you explain it, then? Did he grow a pair of ruddy wings?” he snaps, his patience, as always with the elder Holmes, worn thin already.

“Don’t be obtuse, John,” Mycroft says, ignoring John’s snarl of irritation. “With his extensive knowledge of physics it’s no wonder he researched the mechanics of surviving a fall from that height, however he couldn’t settle with just surviving. What would have happened if the one thing that makes Sherlock who he is was damaged in some way? It would be worse than dying to him, make no mistake. He had to protect the one thing that mattered most to him: his mind.”

The gears in John’s head start to churn. The only thing he can manage through slightly numb lips is: “There was so much blood.” A chill settles over him.

“Yes. There was. He fractured his skull, and there was an exorbitant amount of swelling. By all means he should have been a vegetable. The doctors didn’t know what to make of it…” Mycroft trails off, the tone in his voice almost akin to awe. “The eve of the Incident, he warned me. He wouldn’t give me many details, but he said if he survived — if his _theory_ was correct — he would need urgent medical care and a body to replace his at Bart’s.”

“Theory? What theory?” John resists the urge to shake his head from side to side to clear the image of Sherlock strapped to a bed with tubes and wires at the notion of him becoming anything so abject as a vegetable, and tries to focus on the rest of what is being said.

“Sherlock’s mind is like no other. He’s a genius no doubt about that, but a long time ago he discovered his brain had unique properties unlike any other’s that allowed him to treat it like a switch board, saving and condensing vast amounts of information while ridding other knowledge he deemed...superfluous.”

“Well that explains what happened to the solar system and social etiquette,” John murmurs, a sudden grin of relief, and perhaps hysteria, threatens to break out on his face. A thought occurs to him, and it almost makes him laugh outright. “So, hang on. Are you saying that this whole ‘deleting’ business is a real thing?”

“Yes. He always did call his brain a ‘hard drive.’ With as much information that Sherlock is able to process, he learned from an early age to catagorise the ephemera that he’s bombarded with on a daily basis. When he was a boy he had trouble handling it, and at first our mother and the doctors thought he was a high functioning autistic savant. He didn’t speak until he was almost six, and was absolutely loathe to human contact. The only person that could get through to him in the best of times was myself.” Mycroft pauses, a slight frown on his face. “He was always responsive to me, and I knew instinctively they diagnosed him wrong. I taught him how to visualise — to imagine a way, a system, to file all of the information in his head.”

“Wait, you taught him the ‘Mind Palace’ thing?” His mind is reeling.

“Is that what he calls it?” Mycroft asks with an amused smirk.

“Are you surprised?” John says, his lips mirroring the other man’s as if they shared some private joke.

“No. I guess not.”

“Is that what you do? Er…I mean. You and him are a lot alike.”

“What? Oh no. What I do is all intelligence and the study of semiotics. Mine are a set of sharply honed skills, whereas what Sherlock can do is pure, raw talent. I taught him all that I know, of course, but I haven’t the faintest idea as to what really goes on inside his head. Many times he tried to explain it to me — this theory of his — and it was something I strongly advised against. You see John, he was under the impression that he could partition his mind so that if in a crisis, the core of him would be intact.”

“What like a back-up drive?” John snorts.

“Precisely.” Mycroft states, matter-of-fact, and the smirk falls from John’s face.

“You’re not serious? That’s completely unheard of. It’s not about ‘Mind Palaces’ and ‘hard drives’ it’s basic physiology. There’s no way sheer _willpower_ can prevent serious levels of brain damage.”

“Well, you have your proof right in front of you, Doctor,” Mycroft challenges with a sweeping gesture over Sherlock’s prone form.

John gazes, dumbfounded, at his friend’s face cast in shadows from the meager kitchen light behind them. Being the man of science that his is, he can’t help the thrill of excitement that runs up his spine. From a medical standpoint, what Sherlock has managed to do is unparalleled and utterly groundbreaking. He comes over and sits back on the coffee table, unable to stop himself from examining Sherlock’s head gingerly, mindful of the bandage.

“How did he do it?”

“I am under the impression it was through a method of some type of hypnosis. That’s also where Miss Hooper came into play. Not only did he need someone to forge the autopsy and death certificate, but he needed someone to help guide him through the process.”

John nods. He doesn’t really understand any of it, but he’s heard of success stories in alternative medicine that uses the powers of the mind to overcome all sorts of things. Being a doctor, and ultimate a trauma surgeon, he always rationed that he had been too close to the viscera of injury and death to really give any credit to new-age jiggery-pokery. But now there might be something to be said about it…

“Amazing. Truly extraordinary,” he breathes at last. “Well of course it is it’s Sherlock-bleeding-Holmes.” He huffs a laugh, and tucks the throw under his friend’s chin a bit tighter.

“It’s a pity he’s not awake. He does like to be conscious when someone is stroking his ego,” Mycroft says.

As if on cue, Sherlock suddenly sucks in a breath, and keens deep in his chest in a sound of what can only be described as quiet, shuttered agony.

Mycroft and John hold their breath as they helplessly look on. Sherlock’s breathing speeds up, pained bursts of air tearing through his clenched teeth, and he whimpers now and again as if being struck by invisible blows. John leans over him and tries to rouse him, but it’s no use, he’s trapped in his head and there is nothing they can do but wait for what ever it is to pass. John can’t help himself but put a steadying hand on his shoulder. Slowly, Sherlock sinks back into oblivion at the touch. 

“Did they do this, Mycroft?” John says darkly, violently.

“I’m not entirely sure, but my guess would be yes.” Mycroft runs a hand over his face suddenly looking much older. “He was very adamant on keeping this bit of information about himself secret. He knew what someone could do with that knowledge if they found a way in.”

“What does this mean then? Mean for him?”

Mycroft hesitates, the uncertainty on his face sending a jolt of terror through John.

“At the very worst, it would mean annihilation of all that Sherlock is.”


	10. Wasteland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Sorry it's been a while on this one. I was in the middle of finishing up my other piece because it was burning a hole through my computer practically begging me to be done with it. So yes. This chapter is a bit short, but it's Sherlock's POV so wahoo!
> 
> Additional tags: [it's like the mother of all migraines,](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lpkgayrUOS1qiuxpuo1_500.jpg) [quintessential John,](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QOk9-rGgA7w/T8BN2R9-ByI/AAAAAAAAASQ/bUKq527SV1k/s1600/tumblr_l66qesEOJ21qbg82jo1_1280.jpg) [Sherlock is a prat,](http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z386/dr_ducktator/Sherlock%20etc/sherlockangryviolinflou.gif) [bffs!](http://th02.deviantart.net/fs71/PRE/i/2011/103/d/c/sherlock_and_john_updated_by_universalopera-d3dx1tl.jpg)

It was like the dials in his head were turned all the way up. 

Everything was too loud, too bright, too hot and cold at the same time, just too…much. He felt as if he was about to burst into flames while simultaneously drowning in frigid water. It was bloody fucking awful. 

He had found John though, and he couldn’t help the insane amount of joy pounding through his veins, threatening to cause his heart to explode. It wasn’t a lie. He wasn’t dead, and better yet, he was real. He wanted to laugh with bitter hysteria, but the pain wouldn’t let him. He had _won._ He had managed to keep that part of himself away from them. All of the things they and tried to strip away — he had held on with raw, bleeding fingers to the very core of his being while they laid to waste the sharp, well-oiled workings of his mind. So far, only John Watson remained, clear like a note of crystal illuminating the dark he had been trapped in for so long.

Although, darkness was rather appealing right now.

He lets himself sink under the benevolent vigil of his one and only anchor amidst the swirling chaos of overload and sensation…  
-  
-  
-  
 _Wasteland. (Wasn’t there a poem on the subject?)* That’s what his Mind Palace was reduced to. Howling emptiness on the threshold while god knows what was trapped beyond that menacing, and hopelessly shut, Door. At least his subconscious was literal in this existential metaphysicality he suddenly found himself in. (Was metaphysicality even a word?) (Probably not.) He stretches out a pale hand and examines how it practically glows pearlescent in the sucking black. He smoothes his palm over the dark mahogany wood of the Door, and he can feel the vibration coming from the other side, warm and alive. His fingers curl around the doorknob, before he jerks it back with a startled cry. It burned fierce and bright. Cold snap of electricity. It made him feel nauseated. He looks at it with determination, and balls up his fist._

_Just before he can reach for it again, a still small voice alights like softly fallen snow._

_“Don’t,” it whispers. He can’t be sure if he actually hears it or if the Voice is in his mind. It sounds familiar… heartbreakingly so._

_Sherlock looks around then regrets it when he catches a glimpse of the vast expanse behind him. He whips back around and presses into the Door, his forehead against the wood trying to calm the sudden terror that grips him. The nothingness frightens him to his core. He doesn’t know how, but he knows it wants to claim him; swallow him whole. He’s stuck on the threshold, and has no options so his hand makes its way tentatively back towards the obsidian knob._

_“Don’t,” the Voice insists again._

_“Where are you?” Sherlock asks. His words seem to fall from his mouth and splash apart like drops of water. It doesn’t sound like him, and the tingling sensation in his chest is unpleasant. The Voice doesn’t answer, but Sherlock can still feel its presence fluttering feather-light on the edges of his mind. He looks at the door knob again, and he can feel the hum of disapproval. “Well I don’t have much choice do I?” he addresses the presence snappishly. “Unless you have a better way of getting me out of here?”_

_He brushes the tips of his fingers just barely over the dark metal, and he feels needle like jabs shoot up his arm._

_“It will hurt you,” the Voice finally answers. There is sadness in the tone, and Sherlock feels a sense of longing and protectiveness wash over him. The humming feels warm and comforting and causes the numbing cold in his arm to fade._

_“Who — what are you?”_

_“You know who I am,” the Voice nearly laughs, an airy tinkling sound. Sherlock can’t deny the truth in these words, but he can’t place where’s he’s heard it before._

_“Tell me,” he grits out. The stinging in his arm is starting up again and his hand hovers over the knob once more. It crackles its way across his chest and up the side of his neck._

_“I can’t, Heart. You have to remember on your own.”_

_Before he can even speculate what this means, his hand is jerked towards the door knob and his fingers wrap around its icy exterior of their own volition. Sparks go off behind Sherlock’s eyes, and he tries to take his hand back, but it’s stuck, and the pain causes his knees to buckle until he falls to one of them. He’s not sure if he’s screaming, but he sure wants to._

_The Door groans inward as if holding back a torrent and Sherlock bangs his shoulder against it trying to break through even though it sends spikes of iron through his head. Memories of blood and rage and fear tumble before him, and his throat constricts painfully. Deep in his chest something knots and writhes, and when that dark, sickeningly familiar face contorted in malice rushes up to meet him through the haze, it’s too much and his rips himself away from the threshold. He half expects to be swallowed by the emptiness as he arcs backward from the Door, but he lands hard on his side on solid ground._

_It’s cold, as if the warmth is seeping out of him, but he can’t bring himself to get up. He stares at the Door to his Mind Palace with an abject sense of loss._

_Like a warm breeze, Sherlock feels that gentle presence like fingers caressing the nape of his neck. It’s not a solid or physical presence, but he feels the tenderness nonetheless. It makes him shiver and close his eyes briefly; he feels less alone._

_“What do I do?” he asks in a small voice. Here with the presence he doesn’t feel humiliated at how diminished he sounds. He’s just honestly at a loss._

_“You can’t open it yet,” the Voice says, and he imagines lips pressed to the shell of his ear, and fingers brushing back the hair at his temple._

_“But why?” he snarls with frustration. He tries to get up, but the hands stay him gently but firmly. He can’t bring himself to fight them._

_“Because it would be too much. Too soon. Trust me, Heart.”_

_“How can I trust you if I can’t see you? Why can’t I see you? Are you real?”_

_The Voice seems to give an exasperated little sigh. “I promise you I’m real,” it says, and Sherlock can’t explain the relief he feels or why. “But for now you need to trust me. Okay?”_

_Sherlock frowns into the dark. He’s always been rational, relying on empiric data and physical evidence to tell him what’s real and what to trust. But for some reason, he finds that his trust in this strange presence is given in earnest, almost like it was when he first met John._

_“All right,” he relents swallowing a few times against the swell of gratitude that overwhelms him. The taut pressure eases in his chest. His eyes feel heavy all of a sudden, and the ground doesn’t feel quite so cold any more. “What do I call you?”_

_That tinkling sound — like wind chimes or glass test tubes — bubbles up again, a comforting and familiar cadence. “You don’t need to call me anything it’s just us. I’ll know when you’re talking to me.”_

_“But…” he trails off as his eyes close at the feeling of fingers twining in his hair._

_“Rest now. When you wake up you will be with John back at Baker Street. You’re safe.”_

_He hums lightly, and he imagines his cheek pillowed on soft, smooth skin before he tumbles down into oblivion._

…

Sherlock surfaces from unconsciousness to the feel of a damp cloth on his forehead. He sighs. It feels good against his skin that feels hot and papery.

“Sherlock?” John’s worried timbre intones quietly.

He cracks his eyes open slightly and sees that he’s on the sofa, the light shining through the room telling him that evening is just beginning to settle in. John’s anxious and pale face hovers over him.

He licks his lips, and swallows painfully a few times against the aridness of his mouth and throat. “John?”

“Here budge up a bit,” John says and helps him scoot up so his head is resting on the arm of the couch. His whole body aches, and he groans with weariness. John grabs a cup from the coffee table he’s perched on, and brings a straw up to his lips. “Drink this. Slowly, though,”

The water is deliciously cool as it slides down his throat, and he has to restrain himself from guzzling it out right. John takes the cup away, and rustles around in his bag. He pulls out a digital thermometer and takes his temperature. He murmurs that Sherlock’s fever is finally breaking, relief washing over his face.

“Safe,” Sherlock says with a small smile. Just like the Voice promised. He could trust it after all.

“Yes, Sherlock. You’re safe now. You’re in the flat and your safe,” John says in a placating manner. Sherlock manages what he hopes is a decent scowl.

“I’m not a child John. You don’t need to coddle me. Save your ‘I’m-a-doctor-here’s-a-lolly’ drabble for your patients,” he snaps, but it comes out weak and raspy. It’s hateful and completely undermines the supercilious tone he was aiming for.

John laughs at this, running a hand over his face and shaking his head. “I never thought I would miss your snark, you arrogant prat.”

In spite of himself, Sherlock chuckles too, and it’s such a good sound — them laughing together like old times, and Sherlock can’t help but reach out and squeeze John’s shoulder. John’s breath hitches at this, and his laughter takes on a slightly more breathy quality. He stops suddenly and stares out the window, eyes shining, jaw clenched. He takes a few breaths through his nose to steady himself. Sherlock swallows, his mouth dry and bitter again.

“I’m so, so sorry, John,” Sherlock says. John nods and faces him, ghosts clearing from his tired eyes.

“I know. You didn’t have a choice,” he says. It sounds like he’s more trying to convince himself than anything.

“I wanted to tell you. Bring you along, even. You know I’m lost without my blogger,” he smirks.

“I know,” John says again, the tension leaving his shoulders. He looks down at his tightly clasped hands. Sherlock drops his arm like a dead weight. He knows guilt when he sees it.

“Do you remember the last thing you said to me the night before I died?” John winces horribly, and it’s only then when Sherlock realises that might have been Bit Not Good.

“Yeah I called you a machine then stormed out. Not one of my proudest moments,” he says still not meeting his gaze.

“No, not that. The thing after. You told me it was friends who protected each other, and you were right. And that’s exactly what I did because it was necessary. I will not take guilt or pity from you, John Watson, because I know wholeheartedly you would have done the same for me. You have done on several occasions…” he trails off. He closes his eyes briefly berating himself. He really wasn’t good with sentiment. He opens them again and looks at John squarely trying to convey what he can’t say with his leveling (and patronising) gaze. After all John was being an idiot.

“All right,” he chuckles and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can you sit up?”

Sherlock winces as he lets John help him sit properly back against the couch. “How long have I been incapacitated?”

“Nearly sixteen hours. Mycroft will be pleased you’re awake; I should probably let him know — Sherlock? What is it?” John asks, suddenly alarmed at the rapid paling of Sherlock’s face. He feels as if the air has been sucked out of his lungs. John’s hands rest on his shoulders and his friend peers anxiously into his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Did you say…Mycroft?”

“I did. Yes. Mycroft.”

Images of his brother’s broken body rush to the surface of his mind: images of blood so dark it’s almost black, sallow carrion skin, and wide eyes staring into nothing, and of his hands, his _own hands_ as they —

He bolts up from the sofa, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs, and runs in what he hopes is the direction of the loo. He gets half way before he slips and lands hard on one knee before scrambling up again and all but throwing himself into the bathroom. He makes it, but just barely before he retches violently into the toilet. John hovers anxiously in the door way as Sherlock ejects the contents of his stomach until he is reduced to heaving. Finally, the nausea lets up, and he sinks back against the side of the tub, limbs trembling and sweat pouring down his face. John leaves briefly, and comes back with water. Sherlock sips it gingerly, and manages to gather himself up and sit on the toilet seat. John doesn’t say anything, he just waits, and Sherlock is immensely grateful. When he feels like he can manage without his voice breaking, he looks up at his friend.

“I need to ask you something, John, and you have to be completely honest with me.”

“Yes of course,” John says immediately, a wary confusion on his face.

“Mycroft…is alive?”

“What?”

“Answer the question, John!” he barks, the vice in his chest is back.

“Yes! Of course! Why wouldn’t he be?”

Sherlock stares at him, his mouth agape. If he had anything left in his stomach, he would probably be sick again. Instead he tamps down the strange fluttering in his gut and rises shakily to his feet. He walks over to the sink and splashes cool water on his face before looking at himself in the mirror. He looks almost unrecognisable to himself: his hair a dirty matted mess, still bloodied from the gash (now stitched) at his temple, his face pale with dark circles under his eyes, his lips cracked and dry. He locks eyes on John’s as he moves in behind him. A thousand questions play across his face, and Sherlock is almost positive he doesn’t have the energy to answer them. It’s an impressive feat as it is that he’s still standing at this point. In the end John only asks one question:

“Do you need anything?”

It’s so quintessentially John, that Sherlock can’t help the sudden emotion that overtakes him.

“I need a shower,” he rasps, his throat raw.

“All right. Hang on a tick,” he says and leaves for a moment. He comes back with a clean set of pyjamas and his favourite blue dressing gown. He looks a John with a puzzled expression.

“After you…died, I had some of your things packed up. I was going to give them to charity. Mycroft promised he would take care of it,” at this he hesitates, seeing the tension in Sherlock’s mouth, but presses on, “Between the two of us, we apparently kept everything. Sentimental lark, that, but well, if it’s any consolation it’s all here. The rest of it was brought over early this morning.”

“Thank you…” Sherlock says, suddenly feeling dizzy.

“I’ll be right out here if you need anything.” He turns to leave, but before he does he turns around once more. The sincerity on his face causes Sherlock’s heart to thud painfully in his chest. It’s been so long since he’s seen kindness aimed in his direction. “What ever all this is, we’ll figure it out together. I promise. Oh and welcome home Sherlock, I really mean it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Yes it is a poem by T.S. Eliot and it's fantastic. Here is the mood I was going for:
>
>>   
> What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow  
> Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,  
> You cannot say, or guess, for you know only  
> A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,  
> And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,  
> And the dry stone no sound of water. Only  
> There is shadow under this red rock,  
> (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),  
> And I will show you something different from either  
> Your shadow at morning striding behind you  
> Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;  
> I will show you fear in a handful of dust.  
> 


	11. Brother, Oh Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reunites properly with his brother, and tells him about his time away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay a new chapter. I'll be honest, this chapter kicked my butt. I hope I did everybody's character justice. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Additional tags: [reunion](http://sherlockcares.com/wp-content/uploads/holmes-boys-3-photo.jpg), [anchored to the present](http://i1267.photobucket.com/albums/jj549/tiharoa/black_gif_zpsa216a449-1_zpse1daec32.jpg), ['Had I known...'](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m7zrkopeCs1ra9paso1_500.jpg), ['They made me do things...'](http://i1285.photobucket.com/albums/a589/sherlockedchick1/benedict21.jpg)

Sherlock sits on the edge of his old bed in his old clothes, his hair dripping onto his knees and the floor as he stares down at his hands. 

They tremble lightly, and he clenches them almost to the point of pain to try to get them to stop. His eyes flicker around the room for distraction as two different realities war for dominance in his head. The reality that _they_ poured into him — and this new reality that John promised. He was beginning to realise that he really had no idea how much of his life they replaced with the life they owned. He always knew John was real no matter how hard they tried to erase him, but Mycroft…? The vivid memories, though false, were so prominent his fist instinct was to trust them. They kept trying to pull him back into the sucking tar of desperation, and through it the only thing he could really be certain of was that he could trust John more than his own traitorous mind. This thought helps keep him in the here and now.

Still, he had a hard time fully believing it even when he heard the voices coming from the sitting room.

There was John’s anxious tenor becoming more agitated by the second, and then a pause when he heard those familiar pugnacious tones concealed with false politeness and a timber that matched his own. A tempo he would know anywhere. 

Sherlock inhales sharply, his breath sticking in his throat. He creeps to his door and opens it a fraction to better hear the conversation.

“…professional opinion —”

“That may be the case, _Doctor,_ but this can’t wait. I need to debrief him as soon as possible. My people won’t wait, and the longer we tarry the more the trail runs cold,” Mycroft’s voice steamrolls over John. Sherlock hears expensive leather shoes begin to make their way towards his bedroom, and he holds his breath. Then, at the last moment another pair of shoes (worn, cracked soles, men’s size eight) intercept the first.

“I can’t let you go in there, Mycroft. What ever it is can bloody well wait. As of yesterday you put me in charge of his care, and I say as his doctor you need to bugger off.”

Mycroft’s tone takes on a dangerous edge. “You will _not_ keep him from me, John.”

“As of thirty minutes ago, he was quite convinced you were dead! I won’t have you upsetting him when he’s meant to be recovering.”

At this, Sherlock feels he needs to intervene. After all, John shouldn’t be allowed to suffer the insufferable alone. He takes a much needed breath, and with his head held high slips into the sitting room. 

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock says, trying to maintain a sense of aloofness even as Mycroft’s unnerving gaze snaps to him. For once the man is rendered utterly speechless, mouth slightly open in shock. The look on his face would have been almost comical if it weren’t for Sherlock’s racing heart. John whips around to face him.

“Sherlock? You okay?” he asks warily, his eyes cataloging him from top to toe for any signs of distress. Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back to hide the trembling, and nods assuredly. After a few more moments of intense doctorly scrutiny, he purses his lips in a line that means business. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

John’s presence between him and Mycroft acted like a barrier of protection, and with its sudden absence he felt colder somehow, more exposed. Sherlock resisted the urge to clutch his robe tighter around him, and he regards his older brother sceptically.

He looks older, the lines around his mouth and eyes deeper than he remembers. He also looks thinner around the face, and for once Sherlock regrets the countless jibes he had made about his weight over the years. (It was an odd thing to regret. It made him feel uncomfortable.) 

When Mycroft takes a step towards him, Sherlock can’t help but flinch violently and he nearly jumps out of his skin, the back of his knees hitting John’s armchair. He manages to catch himself, and he sits heavily on the arm, his hands held up to stay the ghost in the sitting room.

“Stop,” he hisses, slamming his eyes shut. 

The incongruent realities in his head fight for dominance, and cause a wave of nausea to swell up within him. He hears Mycroft stop in his tracks, and he lowers his hands in a mixture of relief and shame. He peeks out from under the fan of his lashes like he did when he was young and was caught doing something wrong — looking up at his venerable older brother; their parents’ favourite. It’s humiliating, especially since he could tell Mycroft instantly recognises the insecurity and fear on his face as well. But instead of that detached smugness — that cruel disgust, that utter dissection of his weakness on display — Sherlock is met with a soft smile, and pinched eyes so out of place he momentarily forgets the clanging in his head.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he says quietly, folding his hands over the top of his umbrella. “It’s been a long, long time.” Mycroft’s eyes close for a moment as he exhales lightly through his nose before leveling a look at him. An honest look, not masked by that usual hard shell. 

It’s this look that has Sherlock tentatively bridging the distance between them before he realises what he’s doing. He stops suddenly, swaying on the spot, but Mycroft’s expression doesn’t change, and with much trepidation, he continues forward.

He circles slowly around Mycroft, deducing everything about him from his chestnut coloured hair (thinner and with a bit more grey than he remembers) to the slope of his shoulders, (tense, too many late nights behind a desk) to the seams in his dark blue suit (slightly frayed, at least a year old), and comes to a stop in front of him. Without thinking, he reaches out a shaking hand before snatching it back and looking around in a panic. His eyes clap immediately onto John’s who has been standing for some time on the threshold of the kitchen, watching silently. John nods at him with a small encouraging smile, and the panic fades. Sherlock’s hand continues its journey, and comes to rest over Mycroft’s heart. He needs to feel…he needs to _know_ —

The beats are strong and sure against his palm. Evidence that he is well and truly alive.

Sherlock releases a gusty breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and drops his hand, the feel of the pulse still tingling against his skin. As if giving permission, he nods silently and spins around trying to look imperious, and he folds himself into his old chair by the fireplace.

“Mycroft, do you take sugar?” John asks, thawing the tension in the air just a little.

“No, just milk, thank you.” He smiles thinly and sits across from Sherlock in John’s chair like he was always wont to do. The brothers stare at each other, ignoring the tea John brings them before he settles himself on the sofa. Mycroft clears his throat. “How are you?”

Sherlock’s eyes slide away from his. “As good as can be expected.”

“It’s different from last time. Are you sure you’re quite recovered?”

“Last time I had help.”

“And this time…?”

“I don’t remember it being this…painful. I don’t remember —” he sucks in a breath, closing his eyes against the surge of panic. He can hear John shifting anxiously on the couch.

“All right. It’s all right,” Mycroft says, and Sherlock opens his eyes again. “Your memories will undoubtedly come back with time. Just tell me what you know and we’ll go from there.”

“Fort Londbow,” he says clinically trying to detach himself. It was easier if he just focussed on the facts. “It’s not what it seems. They do testing there, on people like me: geniuses the like. They manipulate their cognitive processes.”

“Yes, according to the information I procured, it seems as if the _HOUND_ Serum plays a part in their ministrations.”

“Correct. It is mostly used to coerce the more…unwilling participants. Especially if other interrogation methods failed.” Sherlock grits his teeth, remembering being strapped to a chair as currents of electricity passed through his body over and over. Anger roils within him at the memory of the Coordinator’s cruel face as he turned the dials up further and further until he blacked out. His mouth waters at the onset of intense nausea, but he forces it back swallowing rapidly. 

“When I first got there I was under the impression I would be assigned to a unit, or covering the intelligence on Moriarty’s network. But when I found out what the division stood for, I tried to leave. I told you before I had no qualms going after them on my own, and I fully planned on just that. They wouldn’t let me go, however, saying I was obligated under some rubbish contract. They said in high times of terrorism, power was given to the government to use its _resources_ as they saw fit to protect the general public.” Mycroft closes his eyes at the acquiescence of this statement. Sherlock presses on in a bitter voice stained with accusation. “They told me you were most inclined to agree.”

“Listen to me, Sherlock,” Mycroft says in a hard voice as he leans forward, his back ramrod straight, intensity imbued in his gaze. “I was unaware of your situation until three months ago. Had I known, you would have been removed immediately.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow a fraction, seeking out any dishonesty in his posture or tone, and he finds none. His anger dies down, and though he would be loathe to admit it, he is immensely relieved.

“Of course you would have. Mummy would be furious, and we all know how you hate to disappoint her.” Mycroft relaxes back into the chair at this, equally relieved.

“They crossed lines that should never have been crossed. What I need are names. Can you provide them?”

“I don’t — they rarely let me out of that room, and when they did it was…” Sherlock trails off. It was getting hard to breathe. “They made me do things, Mycroft. I…hurt people. Killed them.” He winces as broken flashes of screaming and torture at his own hand strain against his vision and threaten to drag him back to those dark places. He gets to his feet and stares out the window so he can have something to anchor him to the present.

“They used you to track down Moriarty’s network. They made you an assassin,” he acknowledges.

“Make no mistake, they didn’t have to coerce me to dismantle Moriarty’s empire, I handled that well on my own. But I never killed them. It was after when they made me — they needed other people to be silenced. Certain government officials as well as racketeers. People with the right power at the wrong time. Waste not, want not, isn’t that the adage? No, when I was abroad I handed Moriarty’s men over to Moran to do as he saw fit,” Sherlock says, his voice dark and scathing. That twisted face, the one that brought so much pain and anger to the forefront of his mind, swirled to the surface. 

“Moran was the overseer.” Mycroft says. It’s not a question.

Sherlock turns sharply from the window. “You know of him. How? That neat little file information you _procured?_ ” His heart rate speeds up a fraction despite the asperity in his tone.

“No. Not just that,” he says sighing wearily. He braces his forearms on his knees, and Sherlock can’t remember the last time he looked so rumpled. He wonders how long it’s been since he slept. “Sebastian Moran was James Moriarty’s right hand man. He was the man IA was trying their hardest to track down. It might have been due to the fact we only knew him by his alias: The Cleric. Little did we know he was posing as a double agent in STF.”

Sherlock swallows back bile, his fists shaking at his sides where they were balled tightly to keep from shattering the window. His vision practically whites out due to disgust and all consuming fury, and he sways until his back hits the wall. John is there in an instant, a steadying hand on his shoulder guiding him back to sit in the chair.

“Mycroft…” John starts quietly. “Did you say, The Cleric?”

“You know him?” Mycroft says eyebrows arching in surprise.

“Not personally, no. But I knew of him when I served. There were rumours…rumours of an Army Chaplain who switched career paths and became a sniper. The stories were that he reveled in the killing, and had a penchant for violence. Last I heard he was discharged due to failing a psych eval. It was over three years ago when I started hearing the name Cleric being thrown around. Some of my old Army mates heard he went on to private contracting, and others said he became a rogue merc.”

Sherlock’s vision swims in and out of focus, the past trying to burst through the dams of his mind. The words come unbidden to his lips, and his fingers curl into the armrests of the chair.

“And I will lay my vengeance upon Edom by the hand of my people Israel: and they shall do in Edom according to mine anger and according to my fury; and they shall know my vengeance, saith the Lord God.” It comes out as barely a whisper, but the room falls silent.

“Sherlock?” John says quietly, his hand back on his shoulder. Sherlock drops his head into his hands, and grasps his hair, the pain keeping the false memories at bay. “Mycroft I think it’s time you left now.”

“In a moment, John,” Mycroft says. Suddenly he is crouching down in front of Sherlock grasping his forearms, and trying to get him to look up. “Names, Sherlock. Do you remember any other names?”

“I — I don’t —” The world is tilting, and Mycroft’s face is flashing between alive and dead. It hurts.

“ _Mycroft,_ ” John says sternly.

“What about the Director? The one Moran was working for? Did you ever meet him?” he says ignoring John.

“No! I don’t know! I don’t remember anything else before breaking out two days ago!” he shouts. The alarms in his head are at their peak, and sweat breaks out on his face. He needed the torrent in his head to _stop._

Mycroft drops his hands from where they were clasped tightly around his wrists. “Two days ago? Sherlock that was _three months_ ago.”

“I — what? No. No…”

“Where were you for the past three months, Sherlock?” Mycroft says, genuine fear colouring his words.

Sherlock looks from John’s concerned face to Mycroft’s ashen one.

“I don’t know.” 

He has never known such terror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray mysteries and one clusterfuck of a plot! Hopefully I can keep up with myself. I appreciate any and all feedback!


	12. A Tangible Block

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all. I had to take a bit of a break from this story due to the darkness and general angst that's involved. It's also a pretty intricate story line (for me that is) and I needed to step back. I've been working on other stories here and there, but I promise I haven't abandoned this! To those who are still keeping up with me, thank you so much. I really appreciate it. 
> 
> So yes. This chapter...not one of my best, but I promise we will be getting on with it.

After Mycroft had left, Sherlock sat in his chair for nearly three hours, reticent and nearly catatonic. The tea and soup John brought him remained untouched like he knew it would be. He had a shift at the surgery that day, but he hurriedly called up Sarah and decided to cash in his abundant vacation time, apologising for the short notice. Luckily Sarah was understanding given the fact that it was over two years since he even voluntarily used his vacation at all. 

Sherlock did look at him at this, and John’s eyebrows rose up in challenge, but Sherlock didn’t argue or even seem to care and turned to stare back at the wall.

“I’m going out. We need stuff for the flat, and I need to pick up your antibiotics,” John says some time later. Sherlock remains silent. “Okay, then. Just…stay here and call me if you need anything. Mycroft left a new mobile for you on the table.” He lingers at the doorway for a moment staring hopelessly at his friend, his friend that came back so lost and broken and he has absolutely no idea what to do to fix it.

For three days Sherlock doesn’t sleep, and only eats when John forces the antibiotics into him. On the fourth day, John is frustrated beyond belief, and decides that even if he has to strap Sherlock down, he’s going to make him eat a decent three square meals and make him sleep for at least ten hours. If he’s honest, he’s more angry at himself for not knowing what do for him. (He’s John. He should always know.) He decides to take a shower first to calm down lest he take his frustration out on Sherlock. He tries to take the route through the kitchen in order to bypass the sitting room, when he stops short.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice rasps from around the corner. It’s the first thing he’s said since Mycroft’s visit and it sounds like rusty nails. John forgets his shower and comes into the sitting room.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stands at the window with his back towards the rest of the room. The light breeze wafting in rustles his dressing gown, and at first John doesn’t realise the soft shimmer of the material is actually due to the fact that Sherlock is trembling underneath it. He takes a few steps towards his friend, and places a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock’s reaction is a violent one: he shouts and flinches away, and John nearly trips over his feet backing away.

“Don’t — don’t touch me,” Sherlock says and turns around, his eyes tightly closed his fingers gripping his hair. “I can’t be held accountable for what I might do.”

“Do? What do you mean?” John asks. It’s taking all of his willpower to keep his distance and not rush over and check obsessively for injury or illness. He experiences mild panic when he catches sight of the sheen of sweat on Sherlock’s upper lip. Did he have a fever? Was he taking his antibiotics? Because if he wasn’t —

“I don’t know where I am,” Sherlock answers almost practically even though there was fear etched into every word under that steady monotone. “Every time I open my eyes I’m back…there. At the facility. I might think you are trying to hurt me if I open them and it’s not you I see. But for some reason, your voice remains unchanged.”

John’s mind was whirring. He thought he knew exactly what this was, not being a stranger to the phenomenon himself. “You think…you’re having a flashback?”

“As inconvenient as it is, yes.” He manages to still sound put-off even though he sinks to the floor, his head in his hands. “I’m in the flat, correct?”

“Yes. I promise,” John says, and he takes a few steps towards him.

Sherlock snorts disdainfully. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve said that.”

John blinks. “I’m real this time Sherlock, I —”

“If you say ‘I promise’ again I might just have to hurt you anyway. Hallucination or not.” Sherlock’s attempt at levity falls rather flat as John inhales a painful breath. Sherlock seems to catch on to the fact, and he continues in a small voice. “It’s how I knew you were real after all, you know. There are just some things you can’t delete. Some people…”

Something inside John breaks just then, and he kneels down beside Sherlock.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to touch you,” John says when he stiffens and tries to push himself further into the wall. “Can you try to open your eyes?”

“No. If I do it will take me.”

John scuffs a hand through his hair, and shimmies back until his side by side and resting likewise against the wall. “All right…this is going to be unpleasant, but you need to describe to me where you think you are. As much detail as you can.”

“Does that work…for you?” Sherlock asks in a small and somewhat hopeful voice.

“Sometimes. I haven’t had a flashback in a long while, though. Okay so you can hear me, that’s good. Can you hear anything else?”

“The fans that circulate the air in my cell. Hateful, constant white noise. They’re coming to take me soon. To question me.” John doesn’t miss how Sherlock’s frame coils with tension.

“No they won’t,” he soothes. Sherlock practically growls in frustration.

“I can’t trust you! Damn it, John! This isn’t working.”

“Hang on…” John says getting to his feet.

“John —”

“I said, bloody _wait_ , Sherlock,” he says again and searches under piles of paper scattered on the desk. He finds what he’s looking for next to the couch a moment later, and with his hand he swipes the dust off the brown leather case. He sighs when he looks down at the lacquered cherry wood and silver strings, and takes a moment to let that aching grief wash over him. Then he comes back to his friend’s side and gently sets the violin into Sherlock’s lap. “Tune it.”

Sherlock is at a loss for words, and his throat works against a lump as he swallows hard a few times. He lifts the violin up with his dexterous finger as if he’s afraid it will vanish, testing its weight and its length by touch alone. He runs a broad palm against the warm wood, almost reverently, and it’s a wonder to watch him. John takes his seat against the wall again as Sherlock takes to tightening the pegs at the scroll. The pad of his left thumb caresses one string at a time as his right hand expertly manipulates the tone. He hums in tune with each of the strings, cocking his head to the side with the utmost concentration. John struggles to suppress a grin when he sees that Sherlock hasn’t even noticed he’s opened his eyes. Finally, he strums the four strings in harmony, letting the sound resonate brightly. He exhales shakily, and lowers the violin.

“John…how did you do that?” Sherlock asks with something akin to awe and gratitude. It makes him smile wider. Sherlock turns back to the instrument and plucks out a simple tune with lithe fingers humming along lightly before he stops and frowns.

“Okay, Sherlock?” John asks when Sherlock lowers the violin. He snaps out of what ever reverie he was in, and turns to him his grey eyes coming back into focus.

“Yes I…yes.” He nods slowly, biting his lip thoughtfully. Then, “John?”

“Mm?”

“I’d quite like some toast.”

“Sure,” John says positively bursting with joy at the prospect of something to do. For the first time it feels like a step in the right direction. He pops two slices of bread into the toaster. “Anything else? Beans maybe?” he asks.

“Just toast,” comes Sherlock’s reply. Ah well. Here’s to trying. While John bustles around the kitchen, Sherlock picks up the tune he had be playing earlier, and John begins humming along to it, a warmth spreading through out his chest. The tune is somber at first, but then like the clouds parting to reveal the sun, the tempo picks up and there is a sweetness to the melody that reminds John of hope. If something so abstract as hope could have a sound, he was sure this was it. It’s quite beautiful and buoyant. Which is why he’s surprised when Sherlock abruptly stops and throws himself into his chair with a frustrated growl.

John comes over with a cup of tea and a plate of toast, and Sherlock takes it even though he has a scowl on his face. John sits in the chair opposite and sips his tea expectantly.

“It’s been stuck in my head for three days,” Sherlock says without preamble.

“What is it? A new composition?”

“No idea. It’s infuriating,” he says and takes a savage bite of toast. “There are these holes, pockets of time missing from my memory, and they are more obvious now that Mycroft mentioned it. I can’t think; I can’t remember.”

“Have you tried your Mind Palace thing?” John asks, crossing a leg over his knee. Sherlock stills and his eyes slide to the floor.

“Can’t get in,” he says in a flat voice.

“Sorry? What do you mean you can’t get in?” John asks with a puzzled smile. His smile fades when Sherlock closes his eyes with a weary sigh. “Seriously?”

“It’s appears I’m having some sort of ‘meta-crisis’ that has manifested itself as a tangible block in my mind, so no I can’t bloody well get in and access the appropriate data,” he snarls.

“Okay, calm down. Maybe you just need some sleep. You’ve been up for days,” John reasons. Sherlock makes a pained noise in the back of his throat and get up angrily.

“It’s worse when I sleep,” he says in a small voice and presses his fingertips into the hard wood of the mantle. After a minute, he begins tapping idly, and John notices it’s the little melody from before. “Every time I close my eyes I am back in the darkness with nothing but that glaring door mocking me. It hurts when I try and open it, so I am just left there in the nothing. Alone.”

“Sooner or later you’re not going to have a choice. Your body will choose for you,” John says. He’s not sure what else he can say, and he slips into Doctor Mode on default. This was apparently the wrong thing to say, because Sherlock smacks his hand against the mantle.

“Yes, thank you, I am aware of that!” he shouts, and inhales sharply. There’s an awkward silence that descends over them growing worse by the minute. It gnaws at John, but he knows his infuriating friend won’t ever be the one to break it, so he clears he throat. Before he can say anything however, Sherlock spins around, his eyes fastening to the door. “Someone’s here.”

“What?” John says surging to his feet just as there is a slight knock on the door. Panic floods him. They haven’t discussed their plans regarding Sherlock’s return, and if he’s honest, a rather large part of him feels like — no knows — Sherlock isn’t ready to announce himself to the world. And maybe the world isn’t ready for him yet either. Sure the exoneration and the hype concerning the whole thing had simmered down, but he knew something like this would be a bloody powder keg as far as the media was concerned. He realised that there would always be people to tear Sherlock apart no matter how much time had passed. It was irrevocable.

“No one else knows of my existence. Mycroft has seen to that,” Sherlock says, and he’s not sure if it’s for John’s benefit or his own. The knock comes again, more impatiently, and John doesn’t miss the tightening around Sherlock’s eyes.

“Hang on. I’ll get them to go away,” John says.

“No, wait. I think I know who it is…” Sherlock trails off, and pulls his mobile out of his pocket.

“Mycroft?”

“No. He won’t come unless I request it of him. He knows how much his presence…disconcerted me last time,” Sherlock says, the tension in his face being replaced by intrigue. He strides to the door and gallops down the stairs, John hot on his heels. 

“Hang on you git!” John says shoving Sherlock aside before he could fling open the door. “Do you want people to see you?” Sherlock rolls his eyes and gestures for John to open the door. He leans back against the wall in a petulant huff. 

John glares at him, and wraps his fingers around the knob steeling himself for whom ever he would find.

“Hello, John,” Anthea, of all people says, her dark eyes glittering. “May I come in?”

“Er…” John says. Apparently his permission didn’t really matter in the end because Anthea doesn’t wait for an answer and swiftly side-steps him and makes her way into the hall. Gob-smacked, John closes the door.

“Anthea,” Sherlock acknowledges with a bored air. “In case my brother was unaware, I am in perfectly capable hands, and do not actually require a nanny.”

She looks at him with her manicured eyebrows raised and adjusts the strap on her shoulder where a leather briefcase was slung. She looks at John with a sultry twinkle, and he is suddenly very aware that he is still in his ratty terry cloth dressing gown. “He always thinks everything is about him, doesn’t he? You must get so tired of it. John, I would like some tea, however skip anything with bergamot in it.” And with that she turned on her heel and marched up the stairs.

“Er…” John says again, flummoxed. He looks at Sherlock, and sees that his glittering blue eyes are tracking the retreating form of Anthea with the unbridled glee of a puzzle waiting to be solved. He pushes himself off the wall and bounds up the stairs. 

When John makes it back up to the flat he finds Anthea and Sherlock facing off in front of each other; Anthea perched on the edge of his armchair with a wry smirk, and Sherlock slouched in his chair, longs legs stretched out in front of him, and his hands clasped under his chin. They sit there in defiant silence, before Anthea says again:

“Tea, John?” Her eyes never leave Sherlock’s.

“Right, I’ll…” he turns into the kitchen and plugs in the electric kettle, and makes his way up the stairs to change.

John figured he might as well have been invisible as he came back into the sitting room a few minutes later with the tea tray. He just set it on the small table and sat on the sofa trying to ignore the uncomfortable tension in the room.

Finally, Sherlock leans forward intently and rests his forearms on his knees.

“So, Anthea — or what ever you are deciding to call yourself these days — tell me about Moran.” John leans forward likewise on the sofa, every sense on high alert.

Anthea quirks the side of her mouth and sets down her tea cup. She pulls out crimson file the exact shade of her lipstick and rests it delicately on her knees.

“After the incident at Fort Londbow, Moran was taken to a secure location and Special Tactics alerted to the goings on at the base. You will be happy to know the others who were in your situation have been removed and debriefed.”

“Others? What others?” Sherlock asks his brow furrowing.

“You weren’t the only one chosen for The Project. From what we know, this has been an ongoing organisation extending back to 1990. You already know of its star protégé.”

“Moriarty?”

“Precisely,” Anthea says and hands the dossier over to him. He flicks it open with a lit of his wrist. “Mycroft suspects the Director propositioned James Moriarty when he was still at University.”

“Moriarty was an alumni of MIT?” Sherlock muses.

“He was very bright when it came to computers; a clear asset. He was the forefront on organising clients that could prove useful to the Director’s various agendas. The Key Code —”

“The one I was tortured for,” he interjects. “Despite the fact it never existed.”

“Yes. The Key Code was a fake, but the idea was very real.”

“According to Mycroft.” She nods. He leans back in his chair, a thoughtful expression coming over his face. “I remember…remember them wanting me to design something. To come up with a working algorithm…” He clenches his jaw, and his focus snaps back into place. “How is Moran involved? He wasn’t particularly bright to warrant such attention from STF.”

“No but he is highly gifted in another regard; he has a penchant for violence. This is what caught Moriarty’s eye, and he surrounded himself with people like him after he betrayed the Director and broke off on his own. So you can see why Sebastian became an asset to the Director after Moriarty killed himself.”

“And we still don’t know who the Director is?” Sherlock asks, his eyes flicking over the dry pages.

“Mycroft thinks we might have the data, but no way to access it,” Anthea says, and takes a sip of her tea. She looks up at him pointedly from under her glossy lashes.

“Mycroft thinks I know.” It’s not a question.

“What do you think?”

Sherlock slaps the file shut and crosses his arms over his chest. “Is he planning on cracking open my skull in order to retrieve his precious data, then? Because at this point nothing short of that will do,” he says scathingly.

“He said you were dramatic,” Anthea sighs, and John nearly laughs out loud. Did she remember who she worked for? “But yes. That is essentially the goal.”

“And he sends you do to the cracking,” Sherlock sneers. “Are you sure you’re qualified?”

“My forte is psychological analysis; I know what makes the mind tick, and what causes it to stall like an engine in rare cases of trauma.”

“What a simple PA?" Sherlock arches an eyebrow disbelievingly. "There’s more. What aren’t you telling me?”

“My relation to this specific case is unique,” she says, but doesn't elaborate. A tense silence follows her words.

Sherlock regards her with a curious tilt of his head. “Why did you call him Sebastian?” he says suddenly, and John is surprised to see Anthea’s composure slip just a little. She looks away and adjusts the hem of her skirt before swallowing.

“You obviously know why,” she says, her tone blasé. However, John doesn’t miss the light tremble of her fingers.

“Humour me,” he says, a cruel twist to his lips.

Anthea squares her shoulders and meets his gaze head-on.

“Sebastian Moran is my brother.”


	13. The Tide Comes In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is loathe to dream, because when he does, he is drowning...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for another chapter! Like I said this is a behemouth of a story. I hope those of you who have kept reading are enjoying it. I am going to try not to get stuck again like last chapter so you guys aren't left hanging for too long. And as always, comments are appreciated!

Sherlock regards Anthea silently with a clever smirk. She glares back, her dark eyes glittering like flint.

“You’re Moran’s _sister?”_ John says seemingly regaining his ability of speech.

“I think we’ve established this, John,” Sherlock says resting his ankle atop his knee. “What I want to know is where you came from.”

“Anything I have to say will hardly surprise you,” she says deflecting. It’s vastly annoying.

“All right, shall I? It might be quicker,” Sherlock says and gets to his feet. He pins her with his piercing gaze. “You and your brother were obviously close due to your apparent need to defend him even now by constantly diverting the conversation. You still love him, but you are not proud of the way he lives his life. I’ve seen this type of relationship before, as you undoubtedly know.” She looks up at him at this with a quirk of her eyebrow. “So you were close…fraternal twins more than likely. A bond like that goes deep, and can hardly be severed no matter what one does to the other. Especially when you do _everything_ together as twins are wont to do. Even join forces with James Moriarty, am I right?” John sucks in a sharp breath, and Anthea raises her chin defiantly. “Don’t answer that. It’s obvious that I am. When did ‘ol Jim come to you, then? For Sebastian it was after his failure in the Army. He was despondent, without purpose; easy to recruit. But what about you, _Anthea?_ What was it that caused you to turn to organised crime?” Sherlock stops and his eyes rake over her posture. To the average eye it would seem as if she had hardly wavered from her cool detachment, but Sherlock could see otherwise observing the tightness around her mouth, and her white knuckles. 

“Oh yes, I see. You didn’t join up with Moriarty because you lacked purpose. You did it for _revenge_. I’ve always said love was a vicious motivator,” he says looming over her. “So who did you lose to the mockery of our justice system that hurtled you into the business of taking lives?” He peers into her eyes and registers a sudden flash of pain. _Deep_ pain…not from a lover, no… “Oh. There was a _child_ wasn’t there?”

The rest of Sherlock’s deductions ended prematurely as Anthea suddenly jumps to her feet, and lands a resounding _crack_ across his face with the palm of her hand. The flat is startled into silence, and Sherlock puts a hand to his cheek with a bitter smirk. John gets up slowly, and walks over to stand between them, and Anthea looks to the floor trying to rein in a fury of unshed tears.

“Look, John. The one time I get everything _right_ ,” he says viciously. 

“Shut _up,_ Sherlock, Christ! You’re such an arsehole, sometimes,” John says and tentatively curls his fingers around her forearm effectively shaking her out of her dark reverie. Sherlock grits his teeth, and tells himself the sudden flush crawling up his neck is not out of jealously or regret. He turns to face the window with his hands behind his back and observes John in the reflection of the glass, and tries to ignore the throb in his cheek. John guides Anthea to sit back down with soothing murmurs that somehow bring her back to the present. “I’ll warm up some more tea,” he says once the shell-shocked expression fades from her face and busies himself to the task. When he’s out of the sitting room and safely out of earshot, Sherlock turns around.

“I apologise,” he says, and Anthea regards him warily, but nods her head. “I figure the more amenable we are at working together, the faster we will get to the bottom of this.”

She clears her throat with a little hum. “I shouldn’t have hit you,” she says her eyes flicking no doubt to the near perfect impression of her hand on his face with something akin to pride. It’s not an apology, and it causes Sherlock to chuckle despite himself. She rises elegantly to her feet just as John comes in with the tea tray. “I should be going, now. I’ll leave the file for you to look over, and I will be back first thing tomorrow where we will begin.” She turns to John, “Walk me out?”

“Er, yeah — yes of course,” John says and hurriedly puts the tray down on the coffee table. She smiles and he ushers her out through the door, hand hovering over the small of her back as he shoots a murderous glare over his shoulder. Traitor.

Sherlock flings himself into his chair and sets to work deciphering all there is to know about Moran, Moriarty, and the elusive Director.

John comes back up to the flat noisily, clearly fuming as he puts the tea service away. He marches back out to the sitting room with his arms crossed.

“She’s trying to help, you know. That was a bit not good, Sherlock. I’ve said before. Over and over. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

“I know,” Sherlock says flipping a page. He chooses not to remark on the practicality of the adage. Who would want to catch flies anyway?

“And another thing— wait what?” John says, the wind in his sails deflating, abruptly stopping his tirade in its tracks.

“I got carried away. I apologised, if you must know.”

“You…what?” John blinks, and Sherlock can almost hear the hamster wheel grind to a halt.

“Keep up, John. I hate repeating myself.”

“Right…well. Good. That’s…good of you,” he sinks into his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hang on, no.”

“No?” Sherlock says looking up from the file.

“Since when do you apologise?” John levels with a wry smirk.

“Contrary to popular belief, I am capable of recognising when I’m being cruel. I do have some concept of tact. Whether or not I choose to employ it is another story. In this case, crucifying Anthea is unnecessary, not to mention inefficient,” Sherlock drawls and looks down. He can feel John’s knowing gaze bore into him, and he tries not to shift under the weight of it. After a moment John flicks the paper open and settles into his chair more comfortably.

“Well that’s just fine then. Proud of you,” he says, a grin in his voice.

“I don’t need your _approval_ , John,” Sherlock says imperiously, however he can’t help but feel that familiar glow inside whenever he was on the receiving end of John’s praise, facetious or not. It had been so long since he heard John say those things, and he has to will away the distracting tightness in his throat. Just to be a pain Sherlock says, “Tea, John?”

“But I just — God, you’re a prat,” John grumbles and heaves himself to his feet to prepare tea for the third time.

***

Sherlock had only been at it for an hour before he felt his eyelids begin to droop of their own volition. His head dips to his chest, and in a panic he jerks his head back up. He wipes a hand over his face, drains the last dregs of tea in his mug (he really needed to tell John to pick up coffee later) and takes to pacing with the file open in front of his face. After twenty minutes of this, and of reading the same paragraph out loud three times, John finally gets to his feet and plucks the dossier out of his fingers.

“All right. That’s enough. You’re making me barmy with all that. I’m calling it and saying it’s time for bed.”

“Please, John. I’m not going to bed in the middle of the day,” he scoffs, and goes to grab it back. John holds it out behind him and stays Sherlock with a firm hand splayed over his chest.

“You haven’t slept, going on four days now, Sherlock. You’re still recovering, and you need your bloody rest. Besides, I know you. Wouldn’t you rather have control over the situation? Before long you’re not going to have a choice,” he says.

Sherlock stops trying to get around John, and looks at him evenly.

“Nothing about this _situation_ is in my control,” he says with deeper meaning. John lowers his hand, and sighs deeply. 

“I know. But right now, we need to do what we can. _Both_ of us. And you make it that much harder if you get in my way when I’m trying to look after you. Like it or not, I am your doctor, and I’ve spent too many bloody years wondering if I could have done more for you — wondering if there was something I could have done to stop…and now, _now?_ I get a second chance, and goddammit, Sherlock, I’m not going to let you destroy yourself all over again,” he says emphatically and shoves the file against his chest with more defeated sorrow than anger.

Sherlock steps back at the sudden glisten in John’s eyes, and he opens his mouth to say something, but words fail him.

“Look, forget that. I’m just tired,” he sighs wearily and runs a hand over his face. 

Sherlock notices just how true this statement is. It didn’t occur to him that if he wasn’t sleeping, John obviously wasn’t either, unable like always to forego his innate instinct as caretaker. He looks down the hall over John’s shoulder to his room. It’s suddenly menacing and he can’t bring himself to drag him to his own bed.

“Can you give me something?” he asks suddenly.

“What? You mean like a sedative?”

“Yes. I – I don’t want to dream…”

“A sedative won’t stop you from dreaming, Sherlock. At the very worst it will make it harder for you to wake up,” John says, and Sherlock closes his eyes. “Here. Why don’t you lie down, and I’ll bring a chair into your room and keep watch. If you start to have a nightmare, I’ll wake you up.”

Sherlock knows he should feel guilty — knows that John is worn down just as much as he is, probably more, but he can’t help but feel relief. John smiles his open and honest smile.

“All right,” Sherlock says and makes his way down to his room and lies down gingerly on his bed atop the bedclothes. After a moment, John settles himself in the corner of the room with a paperback. He closes his eyes, his limbs already sinking into the mattress. “You won’t go?” he asks forcing them open one last time. In this room sequestered away from the rest of the world, it doesn’t matter that he sounds weak. It’s just John.

“I’ll be here. Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

He wants to say thank you, but the tide comes in and drags him out.

–  
–  
–

_Tar. He was sinking in a mire of tar, and he couldn’t see. Last time he was submerged in water, the cold filling his mouth and lungs and burning him from the inside. The time before that it was fire that felt like glass, and always, always the Door just out of reach._

_This time, there was no Door, and although he was loathe to see it in his nightmares — 'It' being the metaphor of his capsised mind — it’s sudden absence made him panic. He tries to run, to move, anything, but he is slowly being paralysed from the ground up. He wants to grab onto something but there is nothing but empty blackness, and his hands flail wildly without purchase. The constricting iciness he’s submerged in is up to his chest now, and it steals the breath from his lungs. He tries to inhale but it hurts, and the only sound is that of his pounding heart._

“Help me!” _he manages to scream on his last remaining exhale, and he reaches out into the dark…_

_Suddenly a pair of warm and familiar hands lace their fingers through his, and he can breathe again._

_“Close your eyes, Heart,” the Voice says, warm breath like lilac ghosting over his face and he nearly sobs in relief. He closes his eyes despite the fact he can’t see anything in the dark._

_“Where have you been?” he asks unable to keep the betrayal out of his voice. “I haven’t felt you since we first met.” He tightens his hold as if the soothing presence would disappear again._

_“I’ve been here the whole time. Waiting for you to need me.”_

_“I always need you,” Sherlock says and somehow he isn’t surprised or ashamed at the truth of the words. Here in the black he is exposed and laid bare regardless of if he wants it or not. He’s beginning to see that in this in-between place he keeps finding himself every time he closes his eyes, is some sort of base state of being where he is reduced to nothing but his raw nerves and if he didn’t know better, the viscera of his soul. All of the walls he had built for himself over the years to keep his innermost self away from the world were rendered obsolete in the presence of that Voice. He trembles as those soft fingers card through his hair._

_“Oh, Heart…” the Voice, like bells this time, says._

_“Why won’t you show yourself to me?” he asks leaning forward until his face is being gently cradled between two petals of softness and warmth._

_“You know why.” The Voice sighs and Sherlock breathes in the scent of anise and ginger. Something unfurls low in his stomach making him tingle pleasantly._

_“I'm ready, though. I can handle it,” he insists bringing his hands up to caress the ‘there/not there’ sensation on his skin. The freezing cold leaves his body bit by bit, and there is a slow burn taking its place as his blood resumes circulating._

_“There is one thing I can show you. I don’t think it will be too much,” the Voice says. Sherlock feels a light pressure over his eyes, and suddenly he is floating, tilting slowly as if in water until his left side is pillowed against something soft. “Open.”_

_Sherlock opens his eyes and registers he is in an unfamiliar bedroom bathed in blue dawn. The wallpaper he is faced with is peeling and covered in cornucopias full of wildflowers. A side table is at eye level with a glass of water and a small carriage clock meant to imitate white lace. It reads: 5:38 am, and he can hear its ticking and the steady thrum of the gears in the quiet. A picture of…Ghandi stares down at him from the wall, his face covered in quotes. It’s all a bit twee, but he has never known such peace than he has waking up in this place. It hits him that he has woken up here once before, but he can’t remember when or why. Suddenly none of the details matter in the light of the realisation that this is, in fact, a memory and that thought alone gives him hope. Maybe, just maybe his mind isn’t broken beyond repair._

_Just then, he feels a silky warm weight settle in behind him under the duvet, and he goes to turn over, but those familiar hands stay him._

_“No. Don’t turn around. Like this, stay with me like this,” the Voice says, and Sherlock feels arms embrace him over his chest and under his neck, pillowing his head. He can see the delicate curve of a milky hand, almost pearlescent in the cold light. It’s all he has, but it’s enough, and his eyes rake over it, drinking in every detail as if he were dying of thirst. He sees the scar on the inside of the thumb and deduces it’s from a chain-link fence acquired sometime during childhood…_ her _childhood he realises._

_“I know you…” Sherlock says slowly, the pieces in his head struggling to align._

_“Yes. You do,” the Voice — She says._

_“Your scar. It – it was – you are —” he drags in a harsh breath._

_“Shh, Heart. Not too fast, let it come.”_

_“You called me Heart when…when you told me you loved me,” Sherlock says in awe. The memory is dim, only flickers of hands and lips and skin and aching heat like candlelight casting shadows on the wall. His face feels damp, but he can’t explain why._

_“No, no, it’s the other way ‘round,” She says, lips brushing against his cheek. “I called you Heart when_ you _told_ me.”

_“Are you really, real?” he asks for the second time, his voice barely above a whisper due to the fear he feels cramping in his chest._

_“Yes,” She breathes, and wipes away a fresh torrent of tears from his face. He didn’t realise he had been crying. He reaches up and twines the fingers of his right hand with the one near his head and rubs the pad of his thumb against the ridge of the scar. “You can’t come find me,” She says, a nervous waver that shimmers and shatters over him. “Not yet. You have to solve the case first.”_

_Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat. “I don’t_ care _about the case.”  
Suddenly, a hand comes over his eyes again, and he is being shifted to face Her. He wants to move that hand away, but he is stilled by Her closeness and urgency._

_“Wait. You have to promise me, you’ll wait.”_

_“Please. Tell me who you are.” He’s dimly aware he’s begging, something he never does, but he doesn’t care. “Please.”_

_“Promise me, Heart,” She says again and kisses his cheek, “Promise me,” his jaw, “Sherlock,” his lips…_

_He is falling and rising at the same time._


	14. Bare Bones and Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sessions with Anthea are well underway, and they are getting closer to a breakthrough. However, at what cost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous amounts of Sherlock whump in this chapter. And a little bit of John angst. Oh and is that a ship on the horizon?! *grins wickedly*

For the third time over the course of an hour, Sherlock’s back lurches violently off the sofa, his eyes flashing open in a mixture of intense pain and determination. “Again!” he gasps, sweat pouring off his face. He grabs on to Anthea’s hands until his knuckles turn white. For her part she doesn’t even cringe.

“Sherlock, maybe – maybe we should take a break?” John says as he rushes over with a glass of ice chips and a cold rag. He drapes it over his friend’s brow.

“Can’t. I can’t John. I have to — I was _right there_ — the Door, John!” he babbles almost nonsensically. He tries to get up, but John gently pushes him back down.

“You’re going to over do it,” he says kneeling, and rubs an ice chip against his dry cracked lips. Sherlock’s eyes fall closed, and he allows this little bit of relief. John checks his temperature again and finds it’s still hovering just over 38 C. “If your fever goes up any more I’m putting my foot down,” he says firmly, glaring likewise at Anthea so the message is clear. 

He has a feeling that her motivations are a lot more self seeking than she let on. Between her personal vendetta, and Mycroft’s impatience, John worried that Sherlock would snap. They had only been at it for four days, but Sherlock seemed to be weakening at an alarming rate. Even though he was a medical professional, John still had no idea what he was dealing with. All he could discern from Sherlock’s symptoms were the bouts of chronic pain and dangerous fevers that could spike at anytime, and adjust accordingly. Water, rest, soup broth, rest, Lucozade, and cold compresses. It didn’t feel like enough, and every time they thought they were making progress the pieces of Sherlock’s mind that were pulled from the wreckage slipped through his fingers the instant he was lucid. The defeat of this drove his frustration through the roof subsequently aggravating his insomnia and fever all over again. It was a volatile mix, a slippery slope; unforgiving and unpredictable. 

Sherlock described it as a block in his mind that turned his awareness up to overwhelming degrees. Apparently it was meant to protect him, but the wires got crossed along the way that threatened to kill him. According to him, his brain compensated the only way it knew how and created a firewall around his memories. That’s why Anthea is here. She has a skill, it seems. She used to use a variety of meditation methods that allowed her to access the subconscious and attempt to draw certain information out like a siphon. It was for this reason, Sherlock explained that Moriarty, and subsequently Mycroft found her quite useful. 

The way he put it, anyone could torture someone for information, but the results were unreliable and there was always the chance the subject would die before anything useful could be gained. But if they could be tricked into believing a different reality, then they would also become more amenable to their captors. It was what they had tried to do with Sherlock through a mixture of fear serum and pain until all that was left was the base structure of his working mind. He was a vehicle of stratagem and autonomy, responding to directives and accomplishing objectives. 

Truly, like a well-oiled machine. 

John shudders and feels that familiar prickle of guilt.

“Again, John. I need to go again,” Sherlock says through clacking teeth as the fever rages behind his eyes.

“You need a couple of minutes,” John says firmly, pressing a straw to his lips to get him to take a proper mouthful of water. He pushes it away with a trembling hand.

“We don’t have time, John!” he shouts half way levering himself into an upright position. His face pales dramatically and his eyes grow wide. John recognises what is happening immediately, and is there just in time with the plastic bowl just as Sherlock vomits painfully. Through out his retching, John props him up better and sits next to him on the sofa. He can see the tears in Sherlock’s eyes, and can’t help but put an arm around his friend’s shoulders as he shakes violently. John tries not to show it, but this is beginning to get to him. 

“It’s all right. I’ve got you,” John soothes as Sherlock whimpers.

When he’s finally finished he sags weakly against him, and John wipes his mouth with the damp rag.

“We’re done today. You’ve had enough,” John says.

Sherlock clamps a hand around John’s wrist and looks up at him with vulnerable pleading eyes. It looks like it’s taking all his energy just to hold his head up. “Please, John. One more time. I was so close.”

John wipes a hand over his face. God he’s exhausted. “I really don’t think you should. It goes against all of my better judgment.”

 _“John,”_ he says and it almost comes out as a sob. Almost. He huffs a breath out of his nose fighting with himself and the desperate look on his charge’s face.

“You’re dehydrated. I’m going to go get you some Lucozade, and if you can keep it down for thirty minutes then you can go again. But only one more time, clear?”

“Crystal,” Sherlock says, voice like gravel. John eases Sherlock back against the cushions and retrieves a bottle from the fridge. He hands it to him with a look that means ‘and I mean all of it’ to which Sherlock only grimaces and flicks open the cap.

To placate his frayed nerves, John goes back into the kitchen and attacks the dirty dishes with a vengeance. A low pressure builds behind his eyes, as his inadequacy and worry crash over him. It’s staggers him to know that Moriarty was only a small part of the bigger mess that Sherlock is in, and the more he begins to piece together the last few years of his friend’s life, the more despondent he feels. Would it ever, truly end? His hands are shaking by the time he works himself into this hopelessness, and he drops a glass which shatters against the porcelain. It’s the last straw he can take.

 _“Fuck!”_ he hisses and throws the sponge in the sink. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to take some deep calming breaths, but he’s quickly realising it’s not working, and if the ringing in his ears is any indication, he’s actually on the verge of a bloody panic attack. He tries desperately to focus on something, anything, other than the welling feeling in his chest threatening to cut off his oxygen. His gasps come out harsh, barely muffled over the steady sound of the running tap.

“John?” Anthea says from behind him. He nearly jumps out of his skin, almost having forgotten she was here for a moment. He tenses and grips the edge of the sink until his knuckles bleed white.

“Yes?” he says without turning around he hopes it comes out sounding strong and nonchalant. Apparently it doesn’t because he can hear her sigh.

“He’s going to be all right,” she says, and he can feel her taking a few steps towards him. He grits his teeth.

“How do you know that?” His voice breaks, betraying him. “I’ve never seen anything like this before, I don’t — I don’t know what to do,” he confesses. The air is thinning as he speaks, and his eyes blur with tears.

Suddenly, Anthea is there at his side, warm and smelling of jasmine. She turns him around to face her, and he can’t bring himself to look her in the face.

“I’ve never seen this either, but I know he is in capable hands,” she whispers and brings his left hand up between them and turns it so it is facing palm up. He clenches it a few times, trying to get the tremor to cease. She smoothes his fingers flat and traces a soothing pattern along his wrist and the lines of his hand with her thumb. The repetitive motion centres him, and breathing gradually becomes easier. He looks up into her face, and notices that her eyes are closed and she’s humming a tune barely audible over the din of the running water. He tilts his head a little, surprised by this, and simply looks at her. He would have never believed her of such a common act of kindness, what with her constant aloof and superior demeanour.

“Thank you,” he breathes, beginning to feel more in control. Her eyes flutter open, and a small, almost meek smile graces her lips. She leans around him and turns off the tap, the water draining down the sink with a gurgle.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” he asks.

“My mother taught me. She studied holistic medicine,” she says and then blinks as if surprised at her honesty. He knew a closed book when he saw one, and so he was a little surprised at her easy admission as well. Something in her expression changes just then — a duskiness in her deep brown eyes that reminds John of the desert sky at night. His breath is shallow for an entirely different reason, now. “You really care for him, don’t you?”

“I do. He’s….well he’s basically my whole family,” he admits. Her fingers curl into his until they are tangled together. She nods, a flicker of pain crossing her face, and the corners of her mouth turn down slightly. He knows she is trapped in her head again like that first day when the darkness of her past rose up behind her eyes like the tide. He realises that her involvement in this must be overwhelming and incredibly painful, and he feels bad for judging her so harshly before. He stokes his thumb over her knuckles attempting to return the comfort.

“Thank you for doing this for me — for him. The both of us,” John says leaning close so his voice doesn’t shatter this little bubble they’ve created. He’s suddenly filled with the urge to kiss her. With his other hand he gently raises her chin and their eyes collide. 

John is actually startled out of all thought due to her imploring gaze. For a moment he’s reminded of that completely bare-bones feeling that Sherlock’s scrutiny usually inspired, but this is different. Sherlock was always able to look at him and see the minutiae that made him who he was, whereas Anthea’s gaze delves deep into his core and he feels not only seen but _known._ He’s not sure, but he thinks he forgets to breathe.

Anthea closes the gap until they are mere inches apart, and she smiles with sad eyes. She brushes her delicate nose against his in an Eskimo kiss, and he exhales shakily before she pulls away. He aches with her loss, and his hand lingers in hers as long as it can before she turns and makes her way back out to the sitting room.

John stands in the middle of the kitchen, a low tingling sensation settling in his stomach. He can’t put a finger on it, but he feels like he’s forgetting something. He puts his fists on his hips, and it doesn’t dawn on him for almost a full minute that the thing he’s forgetting is Mary. Mary, his girlfriend that’s due back from Costa Rica in less than three months. What’s more disconcerting is the fact that he’s not entirely sure he wants her to come back for once. He wipes a hand over his mouth and huffs a breath out of his nose, before finally following after Anthea.

When he enters, he sees that she’s already begun, hovering over him murmuring soft soothing words. 

Sherlock is once again in his supine position while Anthea’s warm fingers methodically rub across his brow and over his temples getting him to relax. His eyelids are drooping as he settles in, but just before they close he panics for a moment.

“John?”

“Right here, Sherlock,” John says coming over and sitting on the coffee table next to Anthea. He takes Sherlock’s outstretched hand to dispel some of the delirium already creeping into his eyes as his fever steadily rises. John touches his fingers into his pulse point to monitor his heart rate. It begins to calm again as he sighs and finally succumbs to Anthea’s ministrations. After a few moments, Anthea presses three fingers to the centre of his forehead.

“Sherlock,” Anthea’s velvet voice intones. “Follow my voice until you can feel yourself just behind the wall of my fingers, but don’t break through yet.”

He doesn’t stir, so Anthea presses the knuckles of her other hand against his sternum enough to be uncomfortable but not to hurt. He moans.

“Stay behind the wall, Sherlock,” she warns, and he stills. John can feel his pulse pick up slightly. “Can you hear me?”

He licks his dry lips. “Yes,” he croaks.

“Good. Tell me what you see.”

“Nothing,” he frowns, “it’s dark. Cold.”

“It’s not dark, Sherlock. It’s dawn, can’t you see the way it lightens the sky?”

“…Yes.”

“Look around. Tell me what you see.”

“I see —” Sherlock abruptly stops, his pulse rocketing up almost instantly. “No, no, _no.”_

 _“Tell_ me, Sherlock. You have to tell me,” Anthea insists. She replaces her knuckles with her palm and massages his chest gently trying to coax him.

“It’s the _Door._ It’s always that bloody Door,” he groans miserably, and his grip on John’s hand turns to iron.

“Open the door, Sherlock,” Anthea commands.

“I can’t —”

“Yes you can. You’ve done it before, remember?”

“Wha – what?”

“Yes you have. You just have to reach out and open it.”

Sherlock stills, and a small frown of determination creases his brow under her fingers. He begins to shake and pant, a brand new sheen of sweat glittering on his neck and upper lip. He tips his head back trying to dislodge Anthea’s fingers, but he doesn’t have very many places to go and he begins to panic.

“Sherlock,” she says, more stern this time. “Open the door.”

“It _hurts._ My – my head. Where is she?”

John and Anthea look at each other at this. This was new.

“She?” John asks. “Who’s She?”

“It’s not relevant,” Anthea dismisses.

“Wait it might be,” he tries to argue, but she ignores him and turns back to Sherlock.

“She’s not here. You’ll have to go alone.”

“No, no,” he sobs. “Make it stop.” Tears leak out from under his tightly closed eyes. John bites his lip wondering how much more he can take before he jumps in. Like always it’s hard to see him in pain like this.

“The door is almost open, Sherlock,” Anthea says switching to a more urgent tack. She frames his face between her hands. “You can start to see behind it.”

“It’s bright. Too bright.” His legs begin to thrash trying to free himself from her grip. John can’t feel the fingers of his right hand anymore as Sherlock’s grasp tightens further. His pulse his hammering relentlessly as the fear and pain overtakes him.

“Yes, it’s full of light. There’s someone behind that door, focus. You know this person, don’t you?”

“I – I —”

“You know his face. You’ve seen it. Now all you have to do is tell me his name.”

“Argh! Stop! I can’t!” he screams.

“Stop,” John says, but Anthea isn’t having it.

“Tell me his name, Sherlock!” she shouts.

"I can't!"

"Yes. You. Can. Now _focus!"_ She gives him a little shake.

“M – Mohr! Sh – Sheldon Mohr!” he gasps and then screams again, the spasms overtaking him until his muscles lock and contract wildly.

"That's his name? The Director?" she bullies.

"Yes! Mohr. Sheldon Ferris Mohr. I can see his face! Oh god..." he groans.

"Anthea!" John barks.

“Come back, Sherlock,” Anthea says and puts her fingers back against his forehead. “Come back through.”

“Where are you?!” he shouts, completely lost in the labyrinth in his head. “I need you!”

“The door is shut now and you're safe, can’t you see it? It’s locked again and you are closing your eyes as the sun sets. Focus on the growing dark and feel me at the front of your mind.”

“Please, come back!” he keens, oblivious.

“Anthea, it’s not working!” John snaps. Sherlock’s face is completely flushed and his teeth crash together as he shivers violently.

She sits back and presses her knuckles hard against his sternum and he jolts almost upright, eyes flying open as he gasps for air.

“John? John!”

“I’m here, I’m here,” he says and moves over to where Anthea was just sitting so he can ease him back down. “Did you get what you bloody needed?” he bites out. Anthea is already gathering her things while simultaneously texting on her mobile.

“Yes,” she says and doesn’t even look up. “I need to leave now, and I won’t be back for a few days. He needs his rest.”

“No _shit,”_ John grinds out, checking his temp. He didn’t even need a thermometer to know his fever was well over 38 and possibly pushing 40. 

Anthea is suddenly there with a flannel and a bowl of lukewarm water. He didn’t even hear her go to the kitchen, too wrapped up it trying to get Sherlock to drink some water. He fought back weakly, clearly confused at where he was. 

“Thanks,” he grunts, and before he can take it, her hand darts out and grabs his one more time.

“I am sorry, John,” she says seriously. “I had to.”

He looks into her eyes, and he feels that curious jolt pass through him again. He breathes out heavily. 

“I know,” he says and looks back to his shattered friend. Sherlock mumbles and sobs incoherently, his sweaty curls sticking to his forehead. “I’m just afraid of what this has cost him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gathering steam for the end of part one here, friends. Thanks for your feedback. It's really spurred me on into not giving up with this thing.


	15. The Cusp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I am not leaving. Not when I’ve finally got you back, do you understand? I was so alone for the longest time, Sherlock. Before I met you. And I don’t know how I can ever begin to repay you for what you’ve given me. So…there. You have to know that; never forget it because I’ll not say it again.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I am pants at updating this story, guys. I seriously apologise with this one. I will admit up front I've fallen into a torrid love affair with my Jane/Sherlock stories and have accidentally shoved this on the back burner. The plot was threatening to overwhelm me, and I practically lost all my inspiration for this one. So...trying to maintain my loyalty with you guys, I went over some things and trimmed some edges, and now I am much happier with the direction this is going. I also think that I am going to go back and edit a bit too. Maybe. I have this chapter up, but I am not sure when the next update will be. Because of NaNoWriMo, I am concentrating on the whole Jane/Sherlock bit ([Insert Shameless Self Promotion Here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/52616)) and probably won't have much time for this. But I have not given up! I will finish even if it kills me.
> 
> tl;dr BASICALLY what I am really saying is: Thank you readers, if you are still reading that is, for sticking with me.

John presses the damp cloth against Sherlock’s forehead. He shudders violently, and tries to shrink away from the torture that John is implementing on him. John assumes it must feel like torture, given he is completely out of his head and barely lucid. He pulls out the digital thermometer and sticks it in Sherlock’s ear. It beeps, and the black numbers flash a glaring, mocking 40 C. Sherlock’s fever was getting dangerous, and a slick of fear like black ice settles tight in his chest.

“John,” he moans.

“I’m here, Sherlock.”

“Where’s John? What have you done with him?” he says miserably, slipping into another waking nightmare.

“Sherlock,” John says steadily, “I’m right here. You’re back at Baker Street.”

“Baker Street?” he asks with wide, wet eyes. A lump forms in John’s throat.

“Yes. Remember? Me and Mrs. Hudson live here…” He sounds like he is trying to reassure a young child, and he wants nothing more than for Sherlock to snap at him and tell him he’s being tedious. Instead, his face crumples, the moment of hope vanishing and making him look younger still.

“You’re lying,” he hisses and turns his face into the back of the sofa.

“I’m not,” John insists for the second time within the hour. He squares his shoulders and manhandles Sherlock into a somewhat upright position. “I’m really sorry about this, but you need to drink something,” he says and brings a cup up to his lips.

“No,” he says and tries to push himself further into the cushions, he turns his head away. John tries to get him to cooperate, but this agitates Sherlock further. “I won’t let you poison me!” he shouts and knocks the cup out of John’s hand.

“All right!” John says completely at his wit’s end. He stands up and rubs the back of his neck swallowing down the panic rising in his throat. Sherlock clenches his jaw, shivering, his body coiling like a wire. His eyes grow wide for a moment, hands clutching at the seat cushions as he tries to keep the tremors at bay. He fights it for nearly a minute before the wave of convulsions finally subside and he loses consciousness. John pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s completely shattered, and bloody tired of feeling out of his depth.

“Home,” Sherlock breathes just then, his eyes tightly screwed shut. “I want to go _home.”_

John makes a decision in that instant and pulls out his mobile.

It rings for all of two seconds before Mycroft answers.

_“John?”_

“He’s getting worse.”

_“You know we can’t send him to a hospital, John. No one knows he’s even alive still.”_

“Yeah well he might not be alive for much longer unless I can get his fever down,” he snaps harshly. There is a sharp inhale on the other end.

_“What do you need?”_

“Bloody help. And supplies. I need an IV line to keep his fluids up and medical grade fever reducer at this point.”

_“The supplies will be there within twenty minutes. And I am sending you one of my personal doctors to assist you.”_

“No. I’m not letting you send me a stranger,” John says. “He barely recognises me half the time, and the other half he’s not even conscious.”

 _“I fail to see how that matters,”_ Mycroft says with a huff of impatience.

“He’s been God knows where for the past three months, locked up for the better part of _two years,_ and you don’t see how subjecting him to another strange person is possibly detrimental given what you just put him through tonight?” John is near shouting by the end of his tirade.

As if on cue, Sherlock pants a series of hurried breaths, his feet tangling with the discarded afghan as he thrashes his legs. “Don’t hurt John!” he keens. John rushes to his side and combs his fingers through the damp hair at his brow.

“Sherlock, it’s okay,” John says nearly pleading with him.

“Stop, _stop._ Stop this. Let me go. I can’t anymore,” he says trying to get away from John’s hand. His heart clenches painfully in his chest as he watches his friend suffer before him, completely powerless to stop it.

He hears Mycroft clear his throat on the other end. He nearly forgot he was on the phone for a second.

“He needs someone he trusts, Mycroft,” John says wearily.

 _“Whom do you suggest?”_ Mycroft says even though the tone in his voice implies he already knows who John is thinking of.

“Greg Lestrade,” he says instantly and Mycroft sighs as if this confirms his suspicions.

_“He’ll have to be cleared. You’re quite sure he’s trustworthy?”_

“More than sure. I don’t care what you have to do, Mycroft, just get him here.”

 _“I’ll send a car.”_

John hangs up without saying anything more, and drops his phone on the coffee table.

***

Greg Lestrade has had it with this day. After working his arse to the bone on this rape-turned-homicide case, he had to stay late to catch up on a mountain of paper work he wasn’t sure ever ended. Ever since his suspension let up, he was sure the Chief Super was punishing him somehow. And to top it all off his ex-wife was contesting their partial custody arrangement of their kids, demanding yet again to have full dictatorship over the one thing left in his life that she could get her hands on.

So really, he couldn’t be blamed for his right foul mood at being hijacked by a familiar black car.

“Mycroft,” Greg says sliding into the leather seat. Across from him was the insufferable man himself. “What’s this about? I’ve had a bloody awful day, and I am just moments away from finding a good reason to chin somebody, and unless you want to volunteer, I suggest you get straight to the point.”

Mycroft places an ankle atop his knee, and regards him for a moment, hazel eyes flashing. “I’ve made arrangements with your superiors; you will be taking a leave of absence until further notice.”

“What?!” Greg says taken aback. He wasn’t expecting…well he didn’t know what ever to expect from the elder Holmes, but it certainly wasn’t that. “Mind telling me what you went and did that for? I’ve just got my job back!”

“If it’s money you’re worried about, rest assured everything has been handled. I’m afraid you are needed.”

“Oh? Needed eh? What for?” Greg shirks. The arrogant pompous bastard —

“John needs you,” Mycroft says interrupting his thoughts. Alarm blares through the Detective Inspector. There was something different about this clandestine meeting with Holmes that he didn’t pick up on until now. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but what ever it was made him uneasy.

“He didn’t call. He usually calls. Is he all right?” he asks, a hard edge in his voice.

“He is quite all right,” Mycroft says and flips open the little panel to the mini bar tucked next to his knee. “You’re a Scotch man, aren’t you?” He pulls out a crystal decanter and pours him two fingers of the amber liquid.

“What’s all this about?”

“Drink that,” Mycroft says, his eyes dark. “You’ll need it for what I am about to tell you…”

***

John listens for the slamming of a car door before he leaves Sherlock’s side to check the window. Sure enough, he spots the tail end of one of Mycroft’s limos and Greg Lestrade stepping back from the kerb, his shoulders hunched and hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket. He swears he can see the man sigh from where he’s stood. When Greg finally turns to make it up to the flat, John goes down the stairs.

He opens the front door just as Lestrade raises his fist to knock. The DI shifts on his feet and opens his mouth to say something, but instead presses his lips into a hard, grim line. 

“Hey…Greg,” John says. Lestrade’s hollow eyes flick to the hall behind him before back to John’s face.

“I…is he really…?” he trails off shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

“Yes. He’s…Sherlock’s alive,” John breathes.

“Shit,” Lestrade says wiping a hand over his tired face. “How many people know? Molly?”

“Yes, her. And Mycroft. And us.”

“How long’ve you known,” he says, voice rough. John feels a pang of guilt slice through him.

“I was informed a little over four months ago. Before the exoneration.”

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“No. She doesn’t know. She’s been made to extend her trip in Dover by Mycroft, though, so it’s likely she knows something is going on.”

Lestrade nods, and cuffs his hand through his greying hair. John can see the betrayal playing out on his face, and he knows only too well what that feels like. And how utterly useless any platitude or apology he comes up with will be.

Before he can think of anything to say, however, Lestrade beats him to it.

“Christ. I know why he did it, but I still can’t wrap my head around it. I feel guilty, y’know?” he says. John blinks. He wasn’t expecting that.

“What do you mean?”

“It – It was like I accepted his death all too easily, thinking that he always would have succumbed to a fate like that sooner or later. But now that I’m told he’s back…that he’s bloody _alive_ — it’s like I can’t give in to the fact; like I can’t even let myself hope. Christ, right now I’m still not entirely sure I haven’t gone completely ‘round the twist as it is,” he lets out a pained huff of laughter.

“He is alive, Greg. I assure you. And right now…he needs your help, and so do I,” John says.

“Why did you call me?” Lestrade asks, bewildered.

“He threw himself off a building for the three people he cared most about in the world, and you’re one of those people.” Lestrade wavers for a moment unsure, trepidation creeping into his face and his frame. Suddenly, as if on cue, a low tortured moan rings out from upstairs followed by the sound of breaking glass.

Lestrade squares his jaw, and nods tightly at John. For a moment there, John wasn’t sure if he would be willing. After all, he himself hadn’t taken Sherlock’s faked suicide well either. But at the sound of that familiar shattered voice, Lestrade steps over the threshold, and without a word ascends the stairs.

John hesitates only for moment before following him.

When they enter the flat, he hears Lestrade hold his breath.

Sherlock sits on the floor against his armchair with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, and he’s shaking lightly. John comes over immediately and crouches down next to him, mindful of the broken water glass littering the hardwood.

“Sherlock?” he says and tips his head back so he can feel his pulse.

“My heart, John,” he says, his voice wrecked. “It won’t stop racing.”

“I know. We’re going to do something about that, I promise,” John says.

“We?” Sherlock asks blearily.

John looks over his shoulder at Lestrade who is stuck frozen in the centre of the room, a deep frown of distress and disbelief creasing his brow. He raises his hand and covers his mouth, closing his eyes briefly before training them back on Sherlock as if he was afraid the younger man would disappear. He inhales sharply.

Sherlock’s eyes are wide, almost saucer-like in his gaunt face.

“Le — Lest —” Sherlock tries but his voice fails him, and his bows his head into his hands again.

At this, what ever was left of Lestrade’s resolve breaks, and he hurries across the room, falling to his knees next to John.

“Hey, Sherlock?” Lestrade says and reaches a hand out. He wavers for a moment, uncertain, before making up his mind and gripping him tight on the shoulder. Without raising his head, Sherlock lifts his arm and curls his clammy fingers around Lestrade’s wrist. John can tell he wants to speak, but the only thing he can manage is shuddering gasps through his heaving chest.

“Do you mind sitting with him for a moment? I’m going to try and run a bath to get his temperature down.”

“Yeah, I’ll…yeah…” Lestrade says. He grips Sherlock’s shoulder even tighter, and moves in closer. John rises and hurriedly makes his way down the hall, stopping by the airing cupboard to grab some thick fluffy towels and some clothes from Sherlock’s room. He fills the tub only half-way with lukewarm water, and lines the lino with a few of the towels while putting the rest in a nice folded pile on the toilet seat. He breathes through his nose a few times, hikes his sleeves up to his elbows, and takes a moment for the flood of exhaustion to overwhelm him for a few seconds, sagging where he stands and nearly sobbing into the hand pressed tight to his mouth as he exhales. When he feels as if he’s no longer going to collapse under fatigue and stress, he straightens his back and makes his way out to the sitting room again.

He pauses just on the threshold between the kitchen and the lounge, however, when he sees Lestrade talking to Sherlock in low comforting tones. Their heads are nearly pressed together, and Lestrade grips the other man tight, one hand on the scruff of his neck and the other on his shoulder like before as Sherlock practically hangs on to him for dear life. John can just make out Lestrade’s mantra of, “You’re here, you’re right here, Sherlock. Look at me, you’re all right. I’m here, John’s here, it’s just like old times, hey?” from where he stands.

Sherlock nods abruptly, a determination in his gleaming eyes as he struggles to remain on the surface of his delirium. John’s chest feels tight as he bridges the gap between his two friends, and he blinks away the sudden sting of tears.

“Help – help me with him,” John says, and between the two of them, they hoist Sherlock into a standing position baring practically all of his weight on either side. He feels entirely too thin; just another notch of worry carved into the post as far as John is concerned. He pushes it out of his mind for now, and focusses on priority number one, which is getting Sherlock into a stable condition and off of that precarious precipice. 

They make it to the bathroom, and with clinical precision, John strips Sherlock down, and they slowly help him into the tepid water.

Sherlock cries out the instant it makes contact with his skin, and he breaks out into another bout of violent shivering. He brings his knees up to his chest, curling in on himself to try and conserve warmth.

“F-f-freezing. Water’s f – reezing, John,” Sherlock chatters. Tears cling to his lashes as he looks up at him, and John sits on the edge of the tub and begins perfunctorily wiping him down with a damp flannel.

“It’s quite warm, actually. You’re just boiling on the inside,” he tries to joke lightly, but has a feeling it falls rather flat. Sherlock only nods and buries his face against the tops of his knees as John does his back.

Lestrade shifts awkwardly in the doorway before he clears his throat. “I’ll make some tea and turn down his bed. End of the hall, right?”

“Yeah. Thanks,” John says.

“Just call me if you need me again,” Lestrade says and makes his way out of the bathroom closing the door behind him. 

It’s silent apart from the trickle of water, until Sherlock begins to hum under his breath. John recognises it as the mysterious tune he played on his violin for hours and hours not but three days ago, and it inexplicably causes a lump to form in his throat. Without meaning to, he finishes the phrase of the melody along with him, and Sherlock slowly raises his head to meet his gaze, his eyes looking a great deal clearer than he’s seen them look in a while.

“It’s coming, John,” he says almost at a whisper. 

John pauses from wiping Sherlock’s fringe back from his face. “What is?”

“What Anthea did…I can feel it in my head. Things are shifting; rewiring themselves; slotting back into place. I don’t know what I’ll do or say…” he trails off, shuddering violently, but this time not from the chill. “…but promise me you won’t leave?”

John arches a sarcastic eyebrow. “I’ve been harassed by the media, nearly shot by a snot-nosed gangster in training, dragged through one of the most hellish court proceedings I’ve ever been through, and am now currently sponging you down in the bath while you sit there singing to yourself completely starkers. I think if I were to leave I would have done so by now.”

A watery smile flashes across Sherlock’s face for a moment before he sobers once more. “I mean it, John. I…I might say things or shout out. Things that aren’t me. Dark things. I would understand if you wanted no further part in —”

“No. Stop right there,” John says, and Sherlock reluctantly, almost petulantly, closes his mouth. “I am not leaving. Not when I’ve finally got you back, do you understand? I was so alone for the longest time, Sherlock. Before I met you. And I don’t know how I can ever begin to repay you for what you’ve given me. So…there. You have to know that; never forget it because I’ll not say it again.”

Sherlock swallows thickly, and clenches his jaw. “You shouldn’t trust me. I’m not the same as I was. I don’t know what I’ve managed to keep hidden from myself, but it’s probably dangerous for you.”

“Well good news, because I’m not even remotely the same as I was either. Not even goddam close,” he says darkly, the violence and sheer protective force of a true Solider ringing in his words. “You’re an idiot if you think I’m going to let you weather this alone. A bloody idiot.”

And finally, after days and days of pain and sickness and fear, a truly relieved smile slowly curves Sherlock’s lips.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good lord. This has turned into my Sherlock Whump story. I am truly terrible to him in this, but on the other hand, there is so much bromance it almost hurts. But a good kind of hurt. Like pressing hard on a bruise. Or wiggling a loose tooth. heh. I'm tired, and rambling at this point. But for all I know I am talking to NO ONE because it's been FOR EVER since I've updated!!! Okay. Hopefully I've apologised enough. I'll go to bed now.


	16. Remembering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Disorentation, and fear, bloody awful fear and a clanging in his head. The walls crashing down, barricading, sealing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a Christmas present, but I figured it would be appropriate to post today in light of the fact that Series 3 is concluding. You all have been so patient with me on this, and I am pleased to say that this is the end of part one for this series. (Fucking finally. Jeezus Christ Almighty.) Don't worry though, I have the first two chapters of part two for you guys (if any of you are still reading this that is) so you don't despair. :D 
> 
> Blessings to all of you, and really, thanks again to all of you.

John finishes hooking up the IV, hanging the bag of fluid by a metal hanger on Sherlock’s headboard. He tapes the cannula to the crook of his friend’s arm, and pulls the duvet more snugly up under his chin as he continues to shiver lightly even in sleep. His fever finally broke an hour ago, and Sherlock was finally able to sink into a somewhat restful unconsciousness.

“What is that stuff?” Lestrade asks smoothing the eiderdown on the adjacent side of the bed. 

“Just a saline solution to get his hydration up. Couldn’t keep anything down earlier,” John says checking Sherlock’s pulse one more time. It was strong and steady, and his chest rises and falls softly. John’s practically over the moon with relief. He places a hand over his face, and his breath comes out in a rush.

“John, mate,” Lestrade says from next to him. He grips his shoulder. “All right?”

“Yeah,” John says laughing weakly. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ.”

“When was the last time you slept?” Lestrade asks.

“Um…what day is it?”

“That’s it,” Lestrade says, “you need to get yourself up those stairs and sleep.”

“But…” John starts.

“This is non-negotiable. You brought me here to help, yeah? Well this is me helping. Now march.”  
John smiles tiredly. “I guess I could do with a few hours.” He gives one last lingering look at Sherlock. His brow frets in his sleep for a moment, but he doesn’t stir. “You’ll come get me if —”

“Yes. Now go, John. You’re gonna fall on your face if you carry on much longer,” he says sternly. He pulls the chair in the corner up to the side of Sherlock’s bed. “I’ve got him.”  
John stalls in the doorway for a moment taking in the tableau before him. There were the two people he probably cared the most for in the world all in one place. They had both done so much for him, and even though everything was far from all right, he couldn’t help the swell of gratitude that overwhelmed him. Apparently, someone, somewhere, decided to bless him with such great friends and he had no idea what he did to deserve that. He shakes his head, and despite everything, he is relieved at the knowledge he is right where he should be and everything is going to be okay.

He makes his way up the stairs.

***

“John?” Lestrade’s worried voice floats in from the darkened doorway a few hours later. John springs up instantly alert.

“Wha’happen? Sherlock?” John says already on his feet.

“Yeah he’s…not making any sense,” Lestrade says and leads the way back to Sherlock’s room. They push open the door, and John can see for himself.

Sherlock, for all intents and purposes, is still asleep however, his face is screwed up in intense agony and he thrashes around in the bed. He’s speaking rapidly under his breath, and John strains to hear while getting his kit so he could begin monitoring his vitals. At a glance, it seemed as if the fever was still blessedly abated at least.

“Did this just start?” John asks pulling out his stethoscope and listening to the pulse in his arm. It was elevated, but not alarmingly so.

“Yeah. He’d been quiet like the grave until about ten minutes ago when he cried out and started talking some kind of gibberish,” Lestrade says anxiously.

John pries the stethoscope out of his ears and coils it neatly before putting it back in his kit. He kneels by Sherlock’s side and puts a cool palm against his cheek.

“Sherlock? Can you hear me?” John intones. Insensate, Sherlock continues to mutter, and John leans in so he can try and hear.

The ‘gibberish’ Lestrade was referring to was actually snatches of Dutch, if he wasn’t mistaken, and something that sounded a bit like…

“Computer code?” John says, baffled. “What the actual hell?” He sits back on his heels, stunned.

“What seriously?”

John’s head dips down again close to Sherlock’s lips so he could discern just what exactly his friend was saying. Realisation crashes over him. He knows what this is but — it can’t be.

“Get me a pen and paper!” he orders, and Lestrade practically lunges for his jacket hanging on the door to the wardrobe. He pulls out his familiar notebook and pencil and hand them to John. With shaking hands, he copies down the incessant mantra pouring out of Sherlock’s mouth:

 _0010100010111_

“Sherlock? What is this?” John says looking down at the paper, baffled. Sherlock is oblivious to him, and continues to spiral downwards into the mire of his unconscious. Eventually, he quiets a little. He continues to clench the sheets with his hands in distress, however. John watches him a moment before dragging himself back to his feet.

“What’s going on?” Lestrade says, concern etched into his face. “What is that?”

“It’s a binary sequence…”John starts. “But that’s impossible.”

“What is?” Lestrade says impatiently.

“You remember the start of the Richard Brook case? How Moriarty managed to break into the prison, the bank, and the Tower of London with nothing but a digital key?”

“Yeah, and wasn’t that a fake? Just a clever bit of bribery?”

“Well yes, but according to Mycroft the idea for a code was a very real one. One that MI6 tried to force Sherlock to complete.” John runs a hand over his mouth. “I think — I think he did it. He said he remembered them trying to get him to come up with a working one, but he was under the impression he escaped before he could give them anything.”

Just then Sherlock keens in his sleep, and both men snap to him.

 _“Jericho,”_ he whispers, and then falls utterly still once more. Lestrade sighs, and unclenches Sherlock’s fingers from where they were fisted impossibly hard in the bedclothes. He tucks him back in, and puts his hands on his hips.

“What’s going on in his head, do you think?” he asks in a grave tone. Sherlock eyes race under his lids back and forth, and his breath stutters for a moment before smoothing out once more.

“I don’t know,” John says, a stone of fear settling in his chest.

–  
–  
–

_The sky is falling, cracking apart like plaster, peeling like wallpaper — fissures of dark racing across the horizon._

_He almost laughs at the fact._

_It’s not like he can escape; it’s his own mind after all. Destroying itself._

_The pallid ball that is the sun in this hateful wasteland arcs across the sky refusing to fully rise or set, and Sherlock glares at the Door before him. Where once was solid wood was now warped and splintering. It bows outward as another roaring pulse thunders beyond._

_Sherlock isn’t afraid anymore, and he reaches a hand out to grasp the knob._

_It still burns, but it is weaker than before, and taking a fortifying breath, he pushes it open…_

_Smothering darkness envelopes him, and the only sound is his ragged breathing. He finds that he is not disassociated from this darkness — a disarticulated mass of thought — no, this time his feet are firmly planted on the hard ground, and he takes a hesitant step forward even though he cannot see. The soles of his feet cause a staccato to ricochet around him, and he reaches out, continuing to stumble onward._

_The top of his foot catches on something, and he falls hard to his hands and knees._

_“Get up, you piece of shit,” a familiar voice snarls, the sour breath buffeting over his face. A hand grips a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back. He wrenches his eyes open, and is nearly blinded with the grimy fluorescent lights hanging overhead. He recognises this place. He was somewhere in Kazakhstan on a lead to the last remaining cornerstone of Moriarty’s network._

 _All he can feel is rage and hatred fizzing through him, and he laughs as he is backhanded across the face. The man had no idea about the screwdriver he managed to snatch when the man wasn’t paying attention…_

_Darkness slams into him again, and his ears fill with an unearthly roar as his memories flood back to him about the facility. He remembers pleading with them that he had done his job and why, why wouldn’t they just let him go?_

_Flashes of being strapped down to that table while being pumped full of the HOUND serum bombard him, and he feels his mind spinning with all of the nightmares they filled his head with._

_First it was Lestrade. Strung upside down with his throat cut. They told him he missed someone from the Tong and directives were sent out to the new Black Lotus General to have him assassinated. Then it was Mrs. Hudson…she died in a fire, Baker Street gone, her body found inside still asleep in her bed. Then it was his brother…_

_Oh god, Mycroft. They made him kill Mycroft._

_The Director said he was corrupt, in the way. Working for Moriarty this whole time. After all, how was it that that Adler Woman was able to get so close in the first place? Of course…of course…he had to die. Obvious._

_And he did it. It was all him. The blood on his hands was so, so red._

_And John._

_John Watson…killed by —_

_No wait, suddenly they were telling him John didn’t exist. It was all in his head. There was no John Watson. Impossible. It just wasn’t possible._

_And bit by bit, Sherlock was able to parse through the dense fog of fear and fabrication they constantly kept him under. He was able to tell when the serum took effect, and began to plot a way to escape._

_Simple in the end, really. And no one saw the explosion coming. At least if he died from this, they would be ruined by the very thing they tried to force him to make._

_An algorithm. A working algorithm._

_Bastards._

_The chaos engulfs him again as the memories like shrapnel fly about with their stained glass bits of colour and sensation shattering over him like waves._

_He was missing something…_

_There was more that he was struggling to coalesce. Something happened…a car crash? Disorentation, and fear, bloody awful fear and a clanging in his head. The walls crashing down, barricading, sealing._

_But no, not fear for himself…fear for something — someone else._

_“Go find John!”_

_The shrill scream pierces the night, and everything around him begins to disintergrate. He holds the numbers, his salvation, in his minds eye willing them to burn into his vision like a brand._

_221B…221B…_

_He had to do what she said or she would be lost too. He couldn’t forget…but she was fading too just like everything else…_

_“Go find John!”_

_He distances himself further and further away from her even though every shred of his being wants to turn back and —_

_Don’t forget her voice…_

_“Go find John!”_

_Her voice, sitting at the piano in her flat singing in her sweet lilting soprano. He takes a few steps towards her, reaching out to touch her shoulder._

_Don’t forget her voice_

_pestering him about the severed pigeon foot on the counter, asking if he would like tea. She calls him Heart, and he still doesn’t know why and —_

_Her hands._

_She tangles her fingers with his, and he notices the calcium flecks in her oval fingernails, and the scar in the crook of her thumb and forefinger and —_

_Her eyes._

_Brown and sacred. They hold the stars and —_

_Her lips._

_They fold in at the corners when she teases him, a dimple on one side winking at him when she chides. When she laughs… and —_

_Her chin as it trembles just before she cries, her tears held in check holding back oceans and rivers and —_

_Her hair, soft like gossamer when he threads his fingers through it simply for the reason that he can and she lets him, and and —_

_He is close to her now, hand finally breaching the distance as he traces the curve of her neck. The tune she plays at the piano stirs his memory even more, and when she finally turns around to look at him, the last vestiges of mutiny his addled brain was conjuring finally fade, the gears moving smoothly once more. He remembers it all._

_He remembers everything._

…

Sherlock surges awake, gasping as though he had been held underwater all this time. Firm hands grasp his arms attempting to hold him down, and he thrashes wildly for a moment before he registers it’s just John at his side.

“Sherlock?” he calls, and Sherlock grasps his shirt collar.

“I remember, John!” he shouts frantically. “Call Mycroft. I’ve been a complete fool!”

“What do you mean?” John says, eyes growing wide.

“It’s — I —” he squeezes his eyes shut against the growing pit of dread opening up cavernous beneath him. He feels like he’s in free-fall.

“What is it?” John says again gripping his shoulders. 

Sherlock slowly opens his eyes and fixes him with an earnest look.

 _“Molly,”_ he whispers.


End file.
